


Aftermath

by TurtleNovas



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Death, Dustin/OMC mention, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mileven Mention, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season 1 & 2 canon compliant, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-21 20:37:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16583732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleNovas/pseuds/TurtleNovas
Summary: Dustin is fourteen years old and, every night, he dreams of his dead cat.





	1. 14 (Raccoon)

**Author's Note:**

> Heads up, there are lots of graphic descriptions of dead animals in this (which is why I tagged graphic descriptions of corpses), and also some graphic vomiting and several panic attacks. Be wary and take care of yourselves first, please! 
> 
> There is no underage romance or sex in this.
> 
> Also, just to avoid any possible confusion, this story is completely separate from the Amelioration series. Still canon compliant through season 2, but totally different circumstances playing out.

Dustin is fourteen years old and, every night, he dreams of his dead cat, her body broken and splattered across his bedroom floor. He dreams of her blood ground into his carpet, and of the stench of shit and iron, so strong he has to bury his face in his elbow to curb the urge to wretch while he tries to manage the situation. He dreams of radio silence, and panic, and an overwhelming, inescapable hysteria clawing up inside of him, forcing his throat closed around tears he’s not yet allowing himself to shed. He still has to carry her outside and bury her, and he’s honestly not quite sure how to get her bowels to stay inside her body while he does it. He doesn't want to lose any pieces of her in the house or the yard along the way.

He’s fourteen years old, and every night he curls his fingers tight in his sheets, pulls his comforter over his head, and tries not to look at the book shelf that he’s moved to cover the stain he never could get out of the carpet; tries not the picture the deep, white gouges in his wall behind it, or the panic she must have felt to scratch that hard, just trying to escape. The images are printed like Polaroids on the backs of his eyelids anyways, vivid and crisp, just waiting for him to exhaust himself enough that he has no choice but to drift into sleep. Sometimes he faces the other wall, but then he remembers the window, can perceive the moonlight flooding in, even through the blankets, and knows that, just on the other side, if he were to look, he could see the spot where she’s buried. His stomach rolls with the knowledge, and he curls in on himself and tries not to make too much noise when he starts to cry.

He’s fourteen years old, and he wakes up every morning drenched in sweat, nauseated and sore, muscles aching with the remembered efforts of digging, and scrubbing, and savagely repressing the urge to break down. Every morning, as the sun filters over his face, he stares at the ceiling and breathes, slow and intentional, until he’s sure he can smile and pretend that he’s fine. He showers in the mornings now, too, in an effort to wash the panic sweat away, and his mom is always giving him cheeky, knowing looks, but he guesses that’s better than her suspecting the truth. He avoids eye contact and tries to look suitably embarrassed when he thinks she’s implying something. He eats his breakfast, pretends his stomach doesn’t feel like a sack full of knives, and he smiles and plays with the new cat as though he doesn’t see Mews's clouded over, dead eyes every time he looks at it.

He goes to school and he laughs with his friends, tries to bring levity where things are still fragile and sore after so much darkness. Everyone is trying their best, he knows, so he just ducks his head and looks suitably sorry when they make digs about his bad judgment, or his lack of trustworthiness, or how easy he has it these days. He lets them tease him for any and everything, just like they always have, and he smiles and laughs along, as if it doesn’t sting at all, just like he always has. He doesn’t even snip back or get defensive the way he sometimes might’ve before. Things between them are tender and bruised, but, he thinks, if he can just maintain the status quo, everything will heal a lot faster.

Sometimes, when he’s with Steve, he lets himself go a little quiet; lets himself stare at nothing for longer than he’s supposed to, until Steve’s hand is warm on the back of his neck, his voice soothing and gentle as he says, “Come back to me, man.” And it feels good, just for a second, to have someone see, even a little bit, that he’s not one hundred percent okay. Steve always smiles at him, squeezes his neck just a touch too hard, in a way that feels entirely too nice, and then gives Dustin an out, as if he doesn’t want to embarrass him by forcing him to talk about it; as if he’s noticed that Dustin’s entire life now is built around _not_ talking about it.

Dustin really likes Steve; really appreciates the way he’s always _there_ now when Dustin, or any of them, need him, despite the way they all kind of treated him like shit. He’s grateful for Steve’s advice, even though he’s started to learn that it’s often a little bit shit, at least when applied to Dustin’s own life. He’s grateful for his generosity, the way he’s always willing to drop what he’s doing to give them a ride, or supervise an outing, because Hopper and Mrs. Byers are still too freaked out to let any of them do anything by themselves, and Nancy and Jonathan are both kind of distant lately. He’s grateful for the way Steve smiles at Dustin’s mom, and listens to her chatter away when he comes to dinner, and for the way he’ll sit at the table and do homework with Dustin as if he doesn’t have anywhere better to be. He’s grateful for the way, sometimes, Steve just asks him if he’s okay, out of the blue, even though Dustin’s pretty sure he didn’t do anything in particular to give him a reason to wonder.

Sometimes, he looks at Steve, when Steve thinks no one is looking, and is struck by the fact that he must be very lonely. Dustin knows that Steve doesn’t really have anyone his own age to hang out with anymore. Not after what Nancy did to him; after the way she took his heart, freely given, and then used it all up, gave it back so broken it’s a miracle it’s still so soft; after the way she did all that and, somehow, let him think he earned it. (Dustin doesn’t like Nancy much anymore, now that things have settled and he’s watched her conspicuously never apologize for anything; watched Steve smile and let it go, even though Dustin knows full fucking well what cheating looks like. He’s seen it before in his own fucking house, and he doesn’t have a dad anymore because of it.) He knows that Steve’s parents are almost never home, and that when they are it’s all pressure and expectations that he struggles to live up to. He sees, over the months that follow those few horrible nights that brought them together, the way Steve’s aimlessness wraps around him and makes him hopeless. It hurts to notice.  It hurts even more to realize that there’s not much he can do about it, aside from make sure Steve knows that Dustin thinks he’s really cool, and worth spending time with, even if everyone else seems to find him a bit of a nuisance, at least when they’re not actively using him for his generosity.

Dustin will never forget who it was that was there for him when he needed it most, despite having no real obligation to help. He'll never forget who it was that took a beating for them and then got back up and fought even harder to keep them safe. He’ll never forget that it took almost two months for Steve's face to knit itself back together, the bruises persistent and technicolor long after the open wounds had closed. He’ll never forget the look of relief on Steve’s face when, as the night was winding down and they were all being ushered out the door, Dustin had resolutely turned to Hopper and said, “You need to do something about Billy Hargrove. He nearly beat Steve to death.”

He’ll definitely never forgive the party for complaining about the _inconvenience_ of the fifty foot restraining order between Billy and Steve now, as if it’s really so annoying for Max to get dropped off that far away when Steve is around.

Dustin is fourteen years old, and somehow, the person he trusts most in the world is someone he’s barely known for six months, someone he barely has anything in common with, outside of a few horrific experiences. Still, he thinks, Steve’s earned it, in every meaningful way, and also just because he’s funny, and sweet, and he tries, even though he really doesn’t _get_ most of Dustin’s shit. Dustin thinks there’s a lot to be said for how hard Steve tries; for how little judgment he puts forth; for how happy he is to just roll with whatever Dustin’s excited about at any given moment; for how much shit he puts up with from the party without complaint, even though, technically, he spends most of his free time these days doing them favors.

Today is another one of those days, where he’s dropped everything to chauffeur them around, despite receiving very little in the way of thanks, and a whole lot in the way of obnoxious complaining about how his car is too small for this, and about how it sucks that Max has to catch a separate ride to the arcade, and about how it’s blatant favoritism that Dustin always gets to ride shotgun, no matter what. Steve just smiles at that, winks at Dustin. “Last I checked, my car isn’t a democracy, and I say shotgun privileges are determined by nepotism and bribery.” He pushes his sunglasses up his nose, and turns onto the main road before continuing, “And from what I remember, none of _you_ assholes has ever given me fresh baked cookies.”

Dustin smiles and looks away out the window, feeling warm and a little nervous, the way he often does when Steve acknowledges in front of everyone that he really does like Dustin best. He feels Lucas smack his shoulder over the seat back as he says, “You gave him _cookies_? That’s playing dirty, man!” Dustin just bats the hand away with equal vigor.

“Someone has to fucking thank him for always driving our sorry asses around, since all you shitheads ever do is complain.” He’s still smiling as he says it, but he can’t help the bite that leaches into his tone, has to laugh a little at the end to try to cover for it, to try to make out like he’s still joking, even though he means every word and would sincerely like to smack some sense into all of his friends, if only he weren’t still desperately trying to paper over all the sensitive areas left by what he’d done. He sees Steve’s gaze flicker towards him, his expression dropping down into concern for a split second before resolving into that soft, content look that Dustin’s come to recognize as fondness, eyes settling back on the road.

He looks like he’s about to say something to try to steer the conversation in a new direction, but Mike beats him to it, leans forward between the two front seats and says with all the horror and delight of a typical teenage boy witnessing something disgusting, “Oh my god, _gross!_ Look at that!” He’s pointing ahead and to the left, and when Dustin looks, he feels his entire body go cold, feels himself become dizzy and a little bit lightheaded, feels his breakfast trying to evacuate his body in a rush through either end. He keeps it in only through sheer, determined bodily tension.

Dustin is fourteen years old, and he knows with absolute certainty that what’s lying smeared across the side of the road is not his dead cat; he knows it’s a raccoon that’s been hit by a car and had its entrails dragged by tires for a few feet; and yet, he can’t tell the difference, and also he suddenly can’t really breathe. He curls his fingers into the fabric of his jeans until he feels the ache of it like daggers between the bones of his hands and then slowly, robotically, as if each individual degree of movement must be calculated and executed by the turn of a crank, he looks away. He forces his gaze to the other side of the road and swallows hard around the feeling of saliva and bile crowding his throat, coiling up around his tongue and begging him to vomit. He breathes through his nose as quietly as he can and tries desperately to school his face to neutrality as his friends carry on in the back seat, presumably excited, and disgusted, and shaken, and all the things you might reasonably be when seeing a dead thing, gruesome and rotting in the middle of your everyday life.

He doesn’t actually realize when they arrive at the arcade, doesn’t notice that everyone has piled out of the back seat and run off to greet Max, doesn’t realize that Steve is calling his name, quiet and intense, until Steve’s hand is on his knee, heavy and startling, and suddenly the world is moving again, and he’s aware of his surroundings, and now he’s panicking that the party are going to know something’s up. “Fuck,” he whispers, then looks at Steve and is somewhat undone by the concern in his face.

Steve looks at him for what feels like a long time, and all Dustin can do is look back, lost and alarmed enough that he thinks he might be shaking. “Dusty,” Steve says again, only it’s quiet this time, less intense; more of a question than a hardline attempt to draw his attention. Dustin swallows hard around the wriggling mass of hysteria still trying to dislodge itself into his mouth and forces himself to look away, to put his hand on the door handle and spread his lips flat over his teeth, pressing a smile into his face in a way that feels a hell of a lot like drawing a razor blade across his mouth.

He huffs out a breath that he’s calling a laugh and looks at his fingers on the door when he says, “Sorry, spaced out a little.” He pulls the handle, and the effort of the action makes his whole arm ache. “Better catch up or I’ll never get a turn on any of the machines.” He pushes the door open and resolutely doesn’t look at Steve as he tumbles out of the car, nearly falling to his knees on the pavement but catching himself just in time, legs feeling foreign and weak under his weight. He casts another manufactured smile over his shoulder, but keeps his eyes somewhere closer to the horizon than Steve’s face. “Whoops.” His pitch goes so high at the end that he thinks he must sound a little unhinged. He ignores it and presses on, heedless of the fact that Steve is still in the car, probably staring after him, his ridiculously handsome face crumpled up around all his worry and care.

He marches decisively across the parking lot, forcing himself to unclench his fists and breathe as slowly as he can, ignoring the way he can still see smears of brick red viscera floating across his vision like he’s lying in bed, eyes squeezed shut, covers pulled tight over his head. The party hadn’t missed him, were too busy greeting Max and getting hyped up for the afternoon, so he slides back into place among the group and does his best to laugh on cue, biting his tongue on any words that might want to come out, unsure what shape or tone they’d take and unwilling to risk it.

He doesn’t look back at Steve, even when he hears the car door close, too afraid of what he might see in Dustin’s expression, because Steve always fucking sees him, and now is really not a good time for that. None of them wait for Steve to catch up, either, and the little punch of annoyance Dustin feels at that is enough to clear his vision, even if the pictures are still painted on his brain like a tattoo. He follows them inside, lingers near the back, unsure if his hands are steady enough to play right now anyways. Vaguely, he hears them bickering about who will have the first go, and then he’s distracted, because Steve is next to him, hand pressing hard and familiar on the back of Dustin’s neck.

Dustin is fourteen years old, standing in his favorite place, surrounded by his favorite people, and all he wants to do is cry, because Steve’s hand is warm and comforting in a way that can only mean he knows something is wrong; in a way that means he’s seen Dustin even without Dustin letting him look; in a way that means he probably wants Dustin to feel safe to do just that, to let him look and see and know, if he really wants to, no matter where they are, or who they're with. He looks up at Steve, feels nauseated and hopeless, body vibrating inside his skin, sloshing his insides about until all he can feel is the aching, relentless press of his heartbeat in all of his arteries. The world is going a little black around the edges with the rhythm of it.

Steve looks at him, gentle and considering, and says, perfectly casual, “I forget where the bathroom is. Can you show me?”

Dustin has to fight not to choke on the stone in his throat, swallows hard around it as his eyes start to sting. He nods and looks away, barely manages to breathe out a garbled, “Sure, come on.”

Steve locks the door behind them, even though it’s a multi-stall restroom, and doesn’t even give Dustin time to consider what to say before he’s hugging him. It’s delicate and relentless all at once, and for some reason, all Dustin can think in the moment is that maybe this is what humane euthanasia feels like - that soft, comforting feeling of knowing it’s over now, and really, there’s no choice left but to let go, to give in to the rush of drugs pulling you under so you won’t feel the pain as you die. It’s a little dramatic, he thinks, but then Steve says, “I’m sorry you had to see that,” and Dustin realizes that this is, in fact, a fairly dramatic moment. It must be, considering the volume of the noise that bubbles out of him, along with a sudden, torrential rush of tears and a sharp, knife hot pain under his ribs that comes with breathing.

Steve lets him cry; lets him gasp and wail into his chest, and cling to his clothes with reckless, tearing fingers, until Dustin’s sure he’s never going to be able to wear this shirt again, but can’t quite gather enough control to just _stop_. He sees her, when he closes his eyes against the heat and the sting of his tears, her bloated corpse torn open and scattered about like some kind of grim pinata (like a raccoon run over by a car, insides spread out in the pattern of a tire tread). He sees her in his room, and in his hands, and in a hole that he dug in his back yard, all on his own, deep enough to leave his skin blistered and sore, but also to ensure that no predators would be able to smell her corpse. He smells her, too; imagines the raccoon in the road would’ve smelled just the same, dead and bleeding and spilling over with all the things the living never meant to smell. He wonders if it would feel the same, too, scraping it off the road the same way he’d scraped her off his carpet, carrying its body like a sack full of potatoes with an open top, dead weight shifting precariously until he's sure something is going to fall out.

There’s a thick coating on his mouth, and logically, he knows it’s from the crying, but his mind is screaming at him that it’s the taste of death in the air, the grit of dirt in his mouth, chased by the sour tinge of bile from throwing up and swallowing it back down, because he’s not allowed to vomit yet; not until she’s buried. He gags, flinches into it with his whole body, and feels the fabric of Steve’s shirt under his teeth and against his tongue. He hears Steve mutter, “Shit,” soft and anxious, and then they’re moving, Steve’s arms still firmly around his shoulders, Steve’s body pressing into him and steering him with patent urgency. Dustin gags again, feels his insides twist up around it, and realizes that he’s going to vomit at just about the same moment Steve is dragging them down to the floor and pushing Dustin’s face away, firm and sure.

Steve holds him while he pukes, brackets his knees around Dustin’s thighs and keeps his arms braced over Dustin’s chest so that Dustin can hit the toilet without letting go and balancing himself. It’s for the best, Dustin thinks vaguely, as his mouth floods with the bittersour remnants of his last meal. He thinks if he’d been left to his own devices, he’d probably have missed completely, collapsed to the floor, and puked in his own lap. But Steve holds him, steady as always, and even manages to move one of his arms up so that he can push Dustin’s hair back off his forehead, the motion soothing, and kind, and the epitome of everything Dustin appreciates about Steve.

“I’ve got you,” Steve says, as Dustin is wracked by another full body flinch, more vomit crawling steadfastly up his throat, even though he’s pretty sure he’s already puked up everything he ate this morning. “Just get it out. You’re okay.” Dustin moans pathetically, coughing around the sting of the vomit, diaphragm spasming into the motion along with everything else. His body seems to be trying to evacuate the entire contents of his abdominal cavity, organs and all. He clings hard to Steve as he retches, takes comfort in the fact that Steve sounds calm, more worried than grossed out, and not in any sort of hurry to be anywhere else.

“Sorry,” he sputters out on a cough, remnants of his last heave dripping from his lips in a way that’s gross enough it almost sets him off gagging again. But he needs to say it, needs Steve to know that he understands that this isn’t normal, or okay, or something that should be expected of him just because they’re friends. “Sorry,” he repeats, just to make sure he's understood.

Steve makes a dark sort of sound in his chest, and suddenly his grip on Dustin feels tighter, more fierce than anything. His tone matches when he replies, “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”

Dustin wants to laugh at that, manages to huff out a single, incredulous sort of noise, and then starts coughing again, harsh enough that it triggers another heave, blessedly dry this time. “Kind of is, though,” he says, wet and thready, when he gets his breathing back under control. He spits into the toilet and cringes a little at the way it strings off his lips in thick, slimy ribbons, spits again a little harder to break the strands, and continues, resolutely not looking back at Steve, “It’s my fault it happened in the first place.”

Steve fills the time it takes him to formulate a response by reaching out and flushing the toilet, pulling back on Dustin to tip him away from any splashing that might happen as it goes. Then he unrolls a generous handful of toilet paper and gives it to Dustin. “For your mouth,” he says, and loosens his hold enough that Dustin can take it and wipe at the slick smear of spit and bile still spread over his lips. Before Dustin has a chance to say thanks, Steve speaks again. “Nothing that happened is your fault. You couldn’t have known. And it’s not your fault you can’t forget, either.”

Dustin tosses the messy paper into the toilet and does his best approximation of a shrug for the position they’re in. He doesn’t want to fight about this, doesn’t even want to talk about it. He knows Steve worries about him, wants him to be happy and healthy and all that other shit people who care about you are supposed to want. He also knows Steve is too gentle to blame anyone for anything that happens, unless it’s himself. He just looks at him, exhausted and still prickling with anxiety over the images pasted on his brain, and can’t think of anything to say in return.

“Dusty...” Steve says, full of hurt and grief and exasperation, all enhanced by the way his eyebrows are pinched together over his wide doe eyes, and the way he bites his lip after, a nervous tic that makes him look even more concerned than he already did. He takes a breath so deep that Dustin is jostled by the movement of his chest, and then lets it out in a quick, edgy sigh. “Listen.” He looks hard at Dustin, forcing eye contact, jaw clenched, face serious, and sincere, and determined all at once. “When fucked up shit happens, it makes us feel fucked up things. That’s normal. But you can’t blame yourself for what happened. It’s not punishment that you’re still fucked up about it. It’s just what happens when bad shit goes down, not something you _deserve_.”

“Okay,” Dustin says, and it’s unconvincing in almost every way, but he _really_ doesn’t want to talk about this. Not when he’s sitting on a bathroom floor, surrounded by the smell of his own sick, still fighting to repress a tremble from seeing some stupid roadkill. Not when all of his friends are just outside the door, probably laughing and having fun and not even noticing that he’s gone. Especially not when Steve is looking at him like it’ll be the end of the world if he admits that he _does_ think he brought this on himself, and all of his friends think it too, have made it clear they think he deserves punishment a lot worse than this and are only being magnanimous by forgiving him. Not when he’s pretty sure he’ll start crying again if he has to say out loud any of the things he thinks about every day now, or describe to Steve the way visions of her haunt him at all times, whether he’s asleep or awake.

Steve keeps looking at him for another long moment, and then seems to deflate, sagging back against the wall of the stall, face going soft and disappointed as he heaves another sigh and looks away. “Okay,” he says, sounding defeated. Then, after another heavy pause, “Do you want to get cleaned up and go back out there?”

Dustin sees that Steve is fighting all his instincts in order to let this go, and in the moment, he appreciates him more than he's ever appreciated him before, which is saying something, considering how cognizant he is of the fact that he'd be fucking dead without Steve's interference and protection. It fills his chest with a balloon of affection, expanding through his ribs to warm every part of him, even as he fights to breathe against the remaining shards of panic still festering in his lungs and around his heart.

“Yeah,” he says, gritty and weak.

Steve helps him stand, holds onto his arm as they make their way to the sinks, and catches him when he stumbles, twice, over the short distance, his legs still shaky and unprepared for the transition away from torture and fear. Dustin washes his hands and his mouth, does his best to scrub the evidence of tears from his face, and splashes cold water over his eyes in an attempt to make them look less puffy. In the end, he does look at least somewhat presentable, if still obviously harrowed.

Steve stands by the sink, watching him with wary, mournful eyes, lip lodged firmly under his teeth, and arms crossed over his middle like he’s just been punched in the gut, but he doesn’t say anything, because he knows Dustin doesn’t want him to. Dustin knows it’s shitty of him to let Steve take care of him like this and then not even talk to him about it; knows that Steve struggles when people don’t communicate with him; knows that he tends to jump to the wrong conclusions about his own behavior and worth (not that Dustin can blame him, after the relationships he’s had, and the way he was punished for keeping a lid on things, even though he was afraid for his life, and everyone else’s lives, too), but he just doesn’t have it in him to give Steve the conversation he wants.

Instead, he smiles, as genuinely as he can manage, fueled by the knowledge of how much Steve cares, and says, “Thanks, Steve. I mean it. I would’ve lost my mind just now if you hadn’t been here.”

Steve drops his arms and slinks into Dustin’s space, pulling him into a loose hug. “As long as you’re okay.” He sounds exasperated and long suffering, but also deeply affectionate in a way Dustin doesn’t hear from anyone else, even his mom.

He hugs Steve back, hard. “I’m okay. I promise.” He says it with all the conviction he can manage, his mouth pressed right over Steve’s chest, fingers curled tight in the back of his shirt, willing him to believe it and Know that he’s done a good job.

“Alright,” Steve says, and doesn’t make any move to end the hug. “Good.”

It takes them several more minutes to separate and make their way back out to the party, all crowded around one machine, watching Lucas try for the high score. When Dustin slips up behind him, Will gives him a concerned look, but Dustin only smiles and asks what he missed, proud of how steady his voice is.

Steve stands watch a few machines away, and when Dustin looks over at him, he’s clearly making an effort to seem nonchalant and unworried. Dustin smiles at him for good measure, and looks back at him again any time he feels himself getting distracted by the little pixelated blood splashes on screen, or the loud, screaming noises. Under Steve's watchful eye, he lets himself settle back into the day, exhausted and a little bit shaky, but mostly okay.

.

.

.

Steve never makes him talk about it, even once they’re alone, even when Dustin can see in his face that all he wants to do is ask, even when Dustin thinks that _maybe_ he could handle telling him about it without losing his mind, but is too much of a coward to give the conversation the opening it needs in order to begin. Steve just bites his tongue, follows Dustin’s lead, and doesn’t say a word about it beyond making sure Dustin is okay any time he starts to feel haunted enough that it shows. Steve never pushes him, never breaches the boundaries Dustin has set up between them, and never even seems to resent Dustin for withholding.

Dustin loves him for it.

 


	2. 15 (The Evidence)

There is a weekend, three months after Dustin’s fifteenth birthday, when his mom has to go out of town for a work retreat, and Dustin is left on his own with a fridge full of leftovers and his face stained with lipstick prints of all the kisses she’d given him before bustling out the door. He'd ushered her off with as many reassurances that _he’ll be fine, it’s only two days,_ as he could manage, and he’s pretty sure it’s even true. His plans for the weekend mostly consist of his yearly reread of _The Hobbit_ and watching a bunch of shitty television. Maybe some national geographic just to add a little enrichment to the mix.

Then Will asks him to hang out on Saturday, and he thinks that’s just as good a plan. He should still be totally fine. It’s a good day, for the most part, and they even meet up with Lucas and Max in the late afternoon for a movie (Mike is off at the Shack of Secrecy with El, probably cuddling and declaring his love every two minutes – a display which Dustin has very little interest in witnessing). He’s in a good mood when he gets back home, and he only perks up more when he notices Steve’s car in the driveway. He’s a little confused, since Steve didn’t mention anything about coming over, but he’s always happy to see him, so he’s smiling when he walks in.

He finds Steve in the bathroom, washing his hands, a bucket of random stuff at his feet. Steve looks at him in the mirror and grins. “Hey man! I didn’t think you’d be home yet, sorry.”

Dustin quirks his head to the side and gives him a curious look. “No problem.” The question is apparent in his tone.

Steve smiles, but drops his eyes, seemingly very intent on the soap suds he’s generating in his hands. “I was just doing a repair I noticed needed doing a while ago. I figured it would be a good time to get it done since you’re mom is out of town and you were gone.”

Dustin feels that sense of happy confusion bubble up a little further, and then a tiny niggle of warning trying to rise up and follow in its wake, extinguished hastily by his knowledge that this is Steve, and Steve doesn't do things that cause alarm. “How did you know I was gone?”

Steve goes still all at once, and Dustin can see his thoughts rolling through his brain like the lines moving up the tv screen when a movie pauses. He smiles, because whatever Steve’s up to, he knows the intentions are good, and because it’s kind of cute to watch Steve’s face work through the process of realizing he doesn’t have anything plausible to say. He's still smiling when Steve’s eyes tick back up in small, mechanical increments to meet his in the mirror. “I may have...asked Will to get you out of the house.”

Dustin gives a noncommittal hum, and he'd be raising an eyebrow if he had ever mastered the skill of doing only one. “And why did you do that?” He’s still cheerful, but there's a little incredulity in his tone now, since he can’t quite puzzle out what Steve would be doing that required Dustin to be gone.

Steve’s face falls just a bit, mouth turning down at the edges and a small crease digging in between his eyebrows. “I thought you might not want to see.” It comes out strangled, like Steve’s throat has gone tight, and Dustin watches as his adam’s apple bobs under the weight of a heavy swallow.

Dustin's stomach clenches up around an abrupt rush of butterflies and dread drops low under them, hot and slimy in his bowels. He trusts Steve with everything, but still, it scrapes his nerves to realize Steve thinks he's headed for trouble. “What did you do?” he asks, and his voice is just as thready as Steve’s had been.

“I, uh...fixed your wallpaper?” Steve says, looking back down and continuing to rinse his hands, thorough in a way that would be comical if Dustin’s heart weren’t suddenly in his throat. “And also the stain on your carpet.” He shuts off the water, and turns around to look directly at Dustin, wet hands clenched hard on the edge of the counter by his hips. “I asked one of the campus janitors how to get the carpet clean, and I had to re-wallpaper part of my room three summers ago after Tommy fucked it up and my dad got pissed, and I guess I just kind of thought even if you do want to leave the bookcase there, it might be easier for you if you knew there was nothing behind it, because I know it stresses you out, and I really don’t know what I was thinking not telling you, but I just-”

“Steve, it’s okay,” Dustin cuts him off, resolute despite his unease, because he can see Steve working himself up into a ramble, his words getting faster and more high pitched as he runs out of breath. Dustin’s heart is racing, and he can feel it fluttering in the pulse under his jaw, but he thinks he’s okay. He looks at Steve, mouth snapped shut, face frozen in a sort of sad half-grimace that makes Dustin smile again just looking at it. “Really,” he adds, and is relieved to see Steve’s expression soften.

“I just wanted to make it easier for you,” he says, sad and gentle.

Dustin reaches out across the small distance separating them and lays his fingertips on Steve's chest, just over his heart, pressing only hard enough to feel how it's racing under his shirt. He feels a lump rising in his throat and swallows around it, stepping into Steve’s space and wrapping his arms delicately around Steve’s middle. Steve is standing frozen, hands still grasping the counter, breathing fast, like he still thinks he’s in big trouble. Dustin squeezes him tighter. “Thank you, Steve,” he says, and tries not to sound too close to tears, although he's pretty overwhelmed at the thought that Steve did this for him without asking, just because he noticed how much Dustin struggles and wanted to help. “You're a really good friend.”

Eventually, Steve hugs him back, arms coming up from his sides in stilted, hesitant motions, until they’re wrapped around Dustin’s shoulders and Dustin feels Steve’s cheek resting on top of his head. Normally he’d complain, crack a joke about mom hugs and make him move, but today he’s okay with it, perfectly content to let Steve rest there as long as he wants, so long as he keeps relaxing bit by bit and realizes that Dustin isn’t mad.

“You can keep your bookcase where you had it,” Steve says, after he’s finally gone totally loose and Dustin can feel him breathing at a normal speed. “I just wanted you to know that if you ever do move it, you won’t have to see that shit anymore.”

Dustin smiles, and it hurts a little, but mostly he just feels warm and fuzzy. “Thanks, Steve. Really.” He squeezes him one more time, and then steps back as carefully as possible, dislodging Steve slowly to avoid startling him. “Do you want some dinner? Mom made lasagna so I’d have leftovers while she's gone.”

Steve perks up significantly at the mention of lasagna, and he’s smiling like everything is normal when he replies, “Are you sure there’s enough for two?”

Dustin grins up at him and moves the rest of the way out of his personal space, stepping out into the hall as he goes. “There’s always enough for you, Steve, you know that.”


	3. 16 (Deer)

When he’s sixteen and so bored with school that he starts seriously contemplating taking extra classes just to amuse himself, Dustin decides to join the debate team. They are pretty casual about it, haven’t even gotten past regional competitions in the last ten years, but it’s a good fit for him. It satisfies his need to consume knowledge almost as fast as he consumes snacks, and, even more gratifyingly, it scratches his itch to be decidedly right about everything. It satiates his ravenously contrary nature, and gives him a positive outlet to exercise his constant need to rebut everything anyone says with obscure facts, which is good, because that habit is currently driving all of his friends away with alarming celerity. It gives him a place to use all the extra knowledge he gets during his other clubs and extracurricular activities, and also gives him excuses to check out any number of bizarre and worrying books from the library without causing concern, because he can always just say he’s researching for a debate topic.

In addition to all that, it helps appease his reckless and steadily growing need for attention, which is good, because it’s getting to the point where even _he_ finds himself annoying a lot of days, and he can’t quite figure out how to fix it. He knows his friends are starting to find him tiring to be around, and most of his teachers tend to flinch when he raises his hand, but somehow he's totally incapable of stopping himself. The only people who genuinely seem to still enjoy his company are his mom and Steve, which isn’t much of a surprise, considering they’re also the only two people (aside from maybe Will, on the rare occasions they hang out just the two of them) that he can really manage to chill the fuck out around, though he can’t really suss out why. He thinks maybe because they both naturally pay full attention to him, except that half the time when he’s with Steve, all they’re doing is sitting there ignoring each other, watching tv or doing homework. Any other time he’s forced to sit still and focus with other people around, he starts itching to brew up a distraction within minutes. It’s like being alone with himself when there are other people around turns him into a fucking crazy person, and all he ever wants to do is get them to interact with him in any way possible. It’s stupid, and annoying, and often times dangerous, considering how mad it makes people to constantly be distracted or interrupted, but he can’t seem to make himself cease.

Debate club helps, though. It makes it easier for him to get through class and hanging out with the party, all of them talking around him, but not often _to_ him unless he butts in, knowing that when he goes to debate, all eyes will be on him, and everyone will have to listen to what he has to say or risk losing the debate (and as much as the team is pretty casual, no one fucking wants to lose in front of everyone). He feels secure during a debate, that he knows what his opponent is thinking about, and how the proceedings will unfold. He can think ahead, working out all possible permutations of the interaction, and know exactly how he’ll respond to each. He can look out at the observers, and gauge their expressions to determine, for the most part, what’s going through their minds, all while knowing that his opponent’s mind is focused on the topic at hand. It’s comforting, and liberating, and makes him feel powerful and safe all at once, in addition to giving him a chance to do all of the things he really does enjoy most.

It’s nice to have something like that in his life, something that doesn’t rely on him imposing on Steve, but still gives him a chance to have that calm he always craves. It’s nice to notice the way his friends slowly start to warm back up to him over the course of the year, the more steam he’s able to blow off, the more he’s able to control his stupid mouth, even when he could point out how wrong one of them is, or disagree just to get a more lively conversation going. It’s nice, also, to realize that he no longer feels the biting, urgent desire to question every single thing his teachers say (although, he does think he’s probably still classed as the Annoying One in most of their minds, since he still has more curiosity in him than most of his classmates combined). It’s even nicer to know that he’s not going to snap and start being obnoxious or picking fights at the drop of a hat, just to get a handle on the reins of his life at any given moment. Most of all, it’s nice to know that he’s getting all this from doing something he’s _good_ at and can be proud of.

He’s good enough that he actually carries their team to the state championships. Granted, it’s not all him, and he knows that, but he does like to think that his own enthusiasm, and yes, maybe even his own smarmy annoyingness when he wins, has inspired his teammates to work harder as well. He thinks he’s not entirely wrong when they win their regionals and everyone shoves the trophy into his hands for the picture. He actually gets some celebratory hugs from his peers as well, even though he was previously pretty sure they were all just barely tolerating him because he was too good to kick off the team. It’s a good feeling, made even better when he goes home and his mom and Steve are there, ready to celebrate. When he tells the party, they all congratulate him in that tone they’ve developed for when they’re happy for him, but don’t really get what all the fuss is about. It’s good enough, and Dustin is already looking forward to winning state before the rush of regionals has even worn off.

He’s even more excited by the time state actually rolls around. He’s been preparing for weeks, in every way he knows how, and he is confident that there’s nothing they can throw at his team that he won’t be prepared to argue. He plans to spend the bus ride relaxing, maybe doing a little reading, and possibly napping to make sure he has as much energy as possible for when they arrive. There is a sense of restlessness and enthusiasm permeating the whole bus, and it takes everyone about an hour to settle into the ride and realize that they’ve still got half a day to go before it’s worth starting to get nervous. Dustin is thriving, buzzing with energy and excitement as he absorbs the atmosphere. It’s his first time ever doing something like this, being part of a team, riding together into the unknown to compete for their honor and the big prize. It’s exhilarating, and he suddenly feels like maybe he understands the joy of being good at sports, at least a little bit.

A few hours in, they stop for lunch at some roadside diner that’s not really equipped to handle a bus full of nerdy teenagers and their chaperons, but the food is good, when it comes, and Dustin’s feeling even better when they get back on the bus to finish the last leg of the ride. It’s about an hour later when he startles out of doze and realizes that everyone has gathered near the front of the bus, piled into the first few rows of seats, crowding around to look out the window as the driver grumbles at them to stay seated. He rubs sleepily at his eyes, and glances out his own window, only to realize they aren’t moving. He sits up in his seat, casts a glance out the back window, and then the windshield, and realizes that there must be some sort of road block, because all the traffic he can see is stopped.

There’s an excited sort of murmur coming from his teammates at the front, although no one is talking loud enough for Dustin to hear what they’re saying, so he decides he might as well go up and see what all the fuss is about. He stretches lazily, and then makes his way towards the opposite window, knees cracking uncomfortably as he goes. For a moment, he’s not really sure what he’s looking at, can’t resolve the shapes and colors he’s seeing into any comprehensible image in his mind. Then, he looks more closely, notices the two cars pulled off the the side, bracketed on either side by cops. Clearly a crash, he thinks, and feels his heart ticking up into his throat as he notices the red smeared over the crushed windshield of the front car. There are no ambulances present, and both drivers seem to be talking to the cops, but Dustin knows what that red means, knows where it must have come from, and immediately, against his will, his eyes are roving, looking desperately for something he knows he doesn’t want to see.

It doesn’t take long to find it, a few feet away, lying twisted and broken in the middle of the road, legs bent at several awkward angles, chest caved in, one eyeball hanging from its crushed socket, sitting in a pool of blood and guts that have presumably leaked from its corpse while the cops try to manage the scene. It’s a deer, large enough to be a buck, but Dustin can’t be sure from here (probably wouldn’t even know if he could see it up close), which explains just how fucked up that front car is. He swallows hard, tongue feeling too big for his mouth, throat feeling too small for his body, everything feeling more than a little slimy, like maybe he’s full of blood and guts going sticky on the road under the sun. His stomach rolls and his throat clenches even harder in response, his whole body tumbling into a heave before he can stop it.

He tastes a thin trickle of vomit as it pushes its way into his mouth and spreads over his tongue. He can’t quite look away, too drawn to the glassy emptiness of the animal’s eyes, not quite clouded over yet in the way he’s come to expect of dead things. It looks terrified, and he imagines that it probably didn’t die immediately, probably lay there, shattered and bursting, listening to the sound of the cars screeching and colliding as it tried desperately to breathe through the last moments of its life. He remembers scratch marks on his wall and a stain in his carpet, blessedly gone now, but forever burnt into his mind. He remembers that spot in his yard where grass doesn’t grow, even in spring, because he’d done a pretty rushed job of digging it up and putting the soil back.

He remembers Mews, her face frozen in the same sort of terror, her lifeless body collapsed in a very similar puddle of blood and guts. Finally, he manages to close his eyes, to turn his head away and push his shaking body back to the other side of the bus. He stumbles a little making his way to his seat, but catches himself, manages to settle into his spot and press his damp forehead against the cool glass of the window. He’s sweating profusely, his whole body on fire with the anxiety of the situation, wracked with the desire to flee, to run until his legs give out, just to escape the knowledge of the dead thing on the road, and the dead thing in his mind.

Instead he breathes, deep and slow, keeping track of the timing of it by reciting the lyrics of Steve’s favorite song in his head. Now is not the time for him to have a meltdown; not when he can’t tell anyone on this bus _why_ he’s so affected, not when he doesn’t have any way of contacting someone who would understand, not when he has a debate competition to win in just a few hours time. He swallows hard and keeps on breathing, willing traffic to start moving so he can stop obsessing over the fact that he’s essentially trapped here, afraid to look anywhere but the opposite horizon. He tells himself he’s fine, that this has happened before and he was able to move past it, that he needs to learn to handle these things on his own, because it’s unrealistic for him to expect Steve to comfort him every time he needs it.

Eventually, his heart slows enough that he no longer feels it jabbing painfully at the underside of his jaw. His throat loosens up, and the slimy, sour coating of half-swallowed bile recedes, leaving him with nothing but a bitter taste and the urgent desire to rinse his mouth with some water. There isn’t any water on the bus, so he just runs his tongue savagely around his mouth, doing his best to generate clean saliva and mop up the mess he’s made in there. When the bus starts moving again, he feels himself unclench, only realizes how tense he’d really become when there is a sharp stab of pain that relays down his neck and into his shoulders, splintering out around his elbows and into his back. He sighs, grimaces around the warmth of his breath in his rancid mouth, and resolutely looks down at his lap until he can be sure he won’t catch sight of anything he doesn’t want to see. His hands are shaking, so he curls them into fists, wraps his arms around his middle and pretends to sleep the rest of the way there. In his mind, he recites the lyrics to every song on his and Steve’s car mixtape, just to keep himself occupied so he won’t start thinking of things he can’t afford to think about right now.

He bombs the competition. His team try their best to keep pace without him, but unfortunately, as much as they’ve all improved over the course of the year, he’s the one with all the random niche information that has really helped them pull out the big points up until now. Today, it’s like his mind is empty, a library full of shelves with no books, just a few dusty pages floating by on an invisible breeze, fluttering out of reach before he can even try to touch the paper. When he tries to search for information he knows he has, all he finds is frustrated, empty static and the hopeless, furious memory of researching this specific topic, cut off as soon as he starts to find the actual information. By the end of it, he wants to cry; wants to break down sobbing in apology and embarrassment as his teammates become more and more disappointed. Instead, all he can do is choke out a quiet, “Sorry guys,” and avert his eyes before he can see the disgust all over their faces.

They leave him to his own devices on the ride home, none of them having the desire or heart to talk to him, even to ask him what the fuck happened. Their coach just casts him a long suffering sideways glance and spends the rest of the ride resolutely avoiding looking in his direction at all. He spends the hours practicing in his head what he’s going to tell his mom to minimize how fucked up he really is about it. He still hasn’t decided by the time they pull into the school parking lot, so he just tries to smile as best he can when he slides into the passenger seat.

She can tell anyways, because she always knows when something’s up with him, even if she can’t always pin down what it is. Her face scrunches up in a mix of hurt and surprise, and she says in her most Mom voice, “Oh, Dusty. I’m sorry.”

He just keeps smiling, painful and small, and says, “It’s okay, mom. We had a good run.”

She looks at him for a long moment. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He looks away, isn’t quite sure he’ll be able to keep his voice from cracking if he has to make eye contact. “No.”  He swallows hard. “I’d rather not. I’m okay, though.” He glances over briefly, making sure to brighten up his smile as much as he can. She squeezes his hand, and then turns back to the road.

“Alright,” she says, pulling out of the parking lot carefully. “If you change your mind, you know I’m always here.”

“I know,” he replies, and wants desperately to cry. “Thanks, Mom.”

She visibly steels herself, and then offers him a bright smile. “Well, just because it wasn’t a win this time doesn’t mean it wasn’t a big accomplishment getting as far as you did! I think we should have something special for dinner tonight.”

He feels warm, despite himself, a small bubble of relief floating up in his chest as he realizes she’s going to let it go. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “What were you thinking?”

They end up ordering in from their favorite Italian restaurant, dessert and all, and his mom lets them sit on the couch to eat, nudges him conspiratorially as she turns on the news, but then flips it over to some random movie. It’s nice, just sitting there with her, watching a trashy tv movie while he tries to decompress. He can still feel the lingering presence of what happened sitting in the back of his mind, and he’s already dreading the moment he’s by himself again, but for now, he can relax and let his mom try to cheer him up.

He decides not to tell Steve what happened, either; just to tell him that they lost, but it’s okay. He knows Steve has a big test on Monday, one that he’s been studying for all week, and probably all day today. He still has Sunday to study more, but Dustin thinks if he mentions anything about what happened, Steve will drop it all and waste the day trying to make sure Dustin’s okay. He’s not sure he could handle the guilt if Steve messed up on his test because he was too busy playing nurse for Dustin’s fucked up feelings.

He does call him, though, because he promised he would. He tries to keep his voice as steady as possible; tries not let his gaze linger on the fucking bookcase, remembering what it used to hide before Steve took it upon himself to fix it, for the sake of Dustin’s fragile psyche. Steve lets him have his charade, plays along like he doesn’t know anything more than a disappointing loss has happened, and Dustin is proud of himself for his lying, right up until the end of the conversation when Steve tentatively asks if maybe Dustin wants him to come over tomorrow. Dustin flinches.

“You don’t have to,” he says, and wants to scream at how choked his voice sounds. “I know you need to study,” he continues, just to make the point.

Steve sighs. “I could study at your place. You can help me run flashcards. Honestly, you’d be doing me a favor. I think I’m gonna lose my mind if I study by myself any more.”

Dustin hates that he knows exactly what Steve is doing, but still can’t keep himself from letting it happen. He also loves Steve for trying, even though he still thinks Dustin is only upset about the loss. He can’t decide whether to smile or scowl as he replies, “Yeah, okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” Steve says, full of warmth and just a tinge of victory, as if Dustin was ever going to stand a chance against him being all soft and nice. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay? I’ll bring breakfast. Tell your mom not to make anything.”

“Okay, I’ll tell her,” Dustin replies, and it comes out quiet and too intense. He needs to hang up soon or he’s going to break down just from the thought of how nice Steve is. “Thanks, Steve.”  He's proud of himself for keeping his voice from cracking on it.

“You don’t have to thank me, Dusty. Like I said, you’re doing me a favor. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah,” Dustin says, and feels very far away. “See you then.”

He sits for a long time after they hang up, staring at the phone in his hands, debating whether he wants to cry or if it would be better to hold it in. Eventually, he sighs and forces himself up off his bed to go put the phone back on its dock. Steve is too nice, he thinks; he knows him too well and cares too much. It’s dangerous, and it makes Dustin feel like he’s taking advantage, but at the same time, he can’t stop himself, because he loves Steve. He wants to spend as much time with him as he can, wants to help him study, even if it’s just a ploy for him to be able to keep an eye on Dustin. He wants to let Steve care for him, because he knows that’s something that makes Steve feel good, and as much as Steve looks out for him, Dustin wants to take care of him back. Wants to make sure Steve feels happy, and fulfilled, and appreciated, and all the things he never felt before, despite trying his very best to be good to the ones he cared about.

In the end, he’s still not going to tell Steve exactly what happened, because he really _doesn’t_ want him to worry as much as he’s sure that would make him worry, but, he realizes, he’s happy to have Steve come hang out with him; happy to have him come for the specific purpose of giving Dustin a distraction, even if they’re both going to pretend it’s not entirely about that; happy to spend time with him and help him study and at least let him know how disappointed Dustin really is, so he can have the moment to offer comfort that he clearly really wants to offer. Mostly, he’s just happy to have Steve at all, and wants to do everything he can to keep him around.

 


	4. 18 (Possum)

When he’s 18, Dustin gets his first boyfriend. They meet on campus at college, Dustin somewhat chagrined to be flagged down and spoken to by a random stranger on his way to class, but still willing to stop, because the guy points out the rainbow patch on his jacket sleeve, tells him it looks good, and asks if maybe they can hang out sometime. Dustin smiles and says sure, tells him what dorm he’s in and offers that he can drop by anytime, but he really needs to get to class right now. The guy grins at him, wide and a little crooked, and nods.

“Yeah, of course.”  He offers his hand. “I’m Chris.”

Dustin takes his hand, squeezes it briefly, and says, “Dustin. I’ll see you around, Chris.” Then he turns to go, because he really does not have time to be talking when he was already running late. He hears Chris call after him, but can’t quite make out the words over the hubbub of the main square at midday.

It takes about two weeks of sporadic hanging out for Chris to ask him out. Just long enough, Dustin thinks, for him to make sure Dustin’s actually gay and not going to beat him to death for asking. It throws Dustin at first, considering he’d kind of assumed they were going to be casual acquaintances and not much more. Chris is a bit of a jock, but not quite in the same way that Steve is a jock, and definitely not in a way that Dustin totally understands. Steve has the sports he played in high school, and he keeps track of a few professional basketball teams, as well as keeping up with major events like the World Series and the Superbowl, but for the most part, his love of sports is very benign in Dustin’s eyes. It’s something Dustin can see him caring about and be fond of, even though he doesn’t totally get it. Probably much in the same way Steve is fond of him for his interests, and gets enthusiastic when Dustin’s excited, but really hasn’t got a clue what’s going on. It’s a mutual understanding between them that they’ll sit through each others’ stuff, even get excited for it, but no one expects anyone to fully comprehend what’s going on. With Chris, it’s more of a lifestyle that he expects everyone around him to be equally invested in, and Dustin doesn’t really...jive with it.

Even more, Chris really doesn’t seem to care much for any of the things Dustin gets enthusiastic about, either. He tends to zone out the second Dustin mentions anything even remotely nerdy and, in reality, Dustin had sort of come to the conclusion that being into dudes was the only thing the two of them had in common. Still, Chris is nice, and not too hard on the eyes, and honestly Dustin’s pretty sure he’s not going to be getting many more chances for dates if he doesn’t take this one. He says yes before he can talk himself out of it, tries not to flinch when Chris immediately goes to kiss him, because wow, he really hadn’t been planning to kiss his first boy today. Never mind that the romantic in him had always hoped his first kiss with a guy would be with someone a little more important to him (he resolutely ignores the noisy goblin part of his brain screaming that it should’ve been Steve, even as Chris’s mouth is still pressed against his).

He kisses back, a little tentative, and tries to also ignore the part of himself that hates how domineering Chris’s mouth feels. Chris is nice, and he’s handsome, and he even gets in people’s faces when they bother Dustin (or at least he did the one time it happened when he was around). It’s worth a shot, even if Dustin isn’t totally sold. When they separate, he makes a concerted effort to smile and maybe even look a little dazed, just to sell the authenticity.

“Not bad, Henderson,” Chris says with a cheeky grin.

Dustin rolls his eyes, hopes it comes off more fond than annoyed. “Yeah, you too.”

He calls Steve when Chris leaves and has a little freakout. Steve laughs at him, but since it’s Steve, it still sounds friendly and sweet. “Man, I told you he was trying to get in your pants.”

Dustin sighs. Steve _had_ told him, as soon as Dustin relayed the circumstances of their meeting and their first hangout session, Steve had pegged him. Dustin had been relatively sure Steve was full of shit, but now realizes that, perhaps, in this arena, Steve’s advice is actually still applicable to his own life. “Yeah, I guess you did,” he says, deflated. “I guess I owe you...some cookies or something. I don’t know.”

Steve just laughs again, a little softer, and says, “Don’t sound so morose, Dusty. Isn’t it a good thing that you have someone?”

“I guess,” Dustin says, and then after a long pause to decide what he wants to say, during which Steve waits patiently on the other end, he adds, “It wasn’t a very romantic first kiss, though.”

He can hear Steve’s smile when he replies, “Give it time, Dusty. There’s nothing to say you can’t break it off after a few dates if you’re still not into it, but you never know. He might be the one.”

Dustin frowns and has to bite back on a comment about Chris being far too dissimilar to Steve to be _The One_. “Yeah,” he says instead. “You’re right. I’m gonna give him a chance. That’s why I said yes. I just...wasn’t really ready I guess. And I kind of thought we were going in the other direction, considering he almost fell asleep when I was telling him about how to play DnD.”

“Well, clearly,” Steve says, tone a little more serious now. “He sees more in you than you realized. Which is no fucking surprise, by the way. You’re great, Dusty. Anyone would be lucky to date you.”

It's like cake, so rich and sweet that Dustin finds it irresistible, wants to indulge in it and eat several more slices than is really good for him, wants to hear those words and wrap them around himself and revel in the sweetness of the gesture and the gentleness of Steve's feelings about him until he can think of nothing else. But there's also the sickness that comes after cake; the feeling of cloying, diabolical nausea riding the wave of sugar and leaving him weak and unable to move, stopped up for days, or running to the bathroom every five minutes to evacuate everything he ate before or after; the feeling of knowing that, as much as Steve means what he says, the fact of the matter is, the 'anyone' Steve is talking about doesn't include Steve himself.

He puts his free hand over his eyes, presses hard against them, and scolds himself for that train of thought. He’s been trying to nip his crush on Steve in the bud for years, and now is not the fucking time for it to rear its ugly head again. Steve is being attentive and kind, just like he always is, and Dustin appreciates him for it. He’s also right, and Dustin needs to shelve these fucking useless feelings, move on, and give Chris a real chance, considering Chris seems to actually want to be romantic with him.

“Yeah, okay,” he says after a long, reluctant pause. He says it in the same way he always replies to Steve’s compliments, because he knows Steve won’t stop until he accepts them, but also he struggles to believe them enough to respond genuinely. “Thanks, Steve.”

“I mean it, Dusty,” Steve replies, because he can always tell when Dustin is just trying to appease him, the bastard. “You’re a catch and he’s lucky to have you.” He pauses, makes a noise that Dustin can’t really interpret, and then adds, “But also, I’m only telling you to give it a chance. It’s okay if you don’t like him in the end. Don’t cut yourself off before you even know what’s happening, but I’m not pushing you to be with him if you decide you don’t like him.”

Dustin has to smile at that. “I know, Steve.  I know you hate that shit.”

Steve makes another noise, this one a little more obviously agreeable and says, “Okay, good. As long as you get me.”

“I do,” Dustin replies, still smiling. “Thanks. I mean it. I don’t know what I’d fucking do if I didn’t have you always talking me off the ledge.”

“You’ve talked me off my fair share of ledges, too, you know,” Steve says, warm and teasing.

“Yeah, I know. But still, thanks.”

“Of course. You know I just want you to be happy.” It’s serious and a little shy, like he’s embarrassed to be saying it. Dustin’s pretty sure if they were in the same room he’d be able to see Steve blushing. It gives him butterflies thinking about it.

“I know,” he says, and it comes out incriminatingly fond. He has to clear his throat a little, hopes Steve doesn’t pick up on it, and then desperately attempts to change the topic. “Anyways, tell me about your life. I need a distraction from this discussion of my woeful inability to notice that people apparently want to date me.”

Steve laughs and lets him have the subject change.

-

Dustin has sex with Chris for the first time about a month into dating him. They’re both virgins, so they flip a coin to see who’s going to top, and naturally, Dustin loses. He doesn’t totally mind, except for the fact that he’s not sure Chris is really very good at this. He decides that it’s not really Chris’s fault, considering he’s never done it before, and determines that he’s going to give him time to learn how (even though they’ve already decided that next time, Dustin will top, because it’s important they both try it).

Dustin is secretly pretty sure he’s much better at it than Chris, if the rate of orgasms is anything to go by, and the data doesn’t seem to change with practice. He tells Steve about it when he sees him a few weeks later on a long weekend, and Steve ends up snorting soda up the back of his nose, then looking heavily apologetic for laughing. It makes Dustin feel better at least, calms his rankled nerves, and makes him more willing to accept it when he goes back to school and Chris is pretty sure he should top from now on, despite it all. He tells himself that there are plenty of other reasons to keep dating him, even if the sex isn’t the best. He tries not to feel like a jerk when the list he makes in his head to convince himself is only a couple points long.

Then Chris takes him to a hockey game for a date, and things go a little south.

It’s not actually the game that’s the problem. Dustin has plenty of practice attending and watching sporting events with Steve and is very good at getting into it in the moment, even if he’s not totally sure of the rules or what’s going on. He’s not even all that bothered by Chris’s annoyance at his constant stream of questions, even though his most private, goblin brain thought is that Steve always _loves_ to tell him more about the game, because it makes it more fun for both of them if they can interact about it. All of that is actually totally fine; annoying, but nothing Dustin can’t get over, and nothing he’s going to let ruin a perfectly good date. The problem comes on the bus ride home.

They’re sitting next to each other, Chris talking animatedly about the game while Dustin listens, interjecting agreeably whenever he thinks it’s a good time. Their legs are pressed together from knee to ankle, because that’s the most they think they can get away with on public transportation in this part of the city, but the warmth of it along his calf is comfortable in a way that makes him press a little closer. All in all, Dustin’s in a pretty good mood, despite himself, gazing out the window as Chris talks, picking up on his expressions in the reflection. The bus comes to a stop at a red light, Dustin shifts in his seat, taking a breath to make one of his happy interjections, and notices a dead possum on the sidewalk.

It’s not busted open and leaking guts the way other roadkill he’s seen always is, but it’s still pretty obvious it’s been hit by a car and either flung onto the walkway or crawled there as it died. Its muzzle is bloody and its torso is obviously bruised and swollen, even looking from this distance. He can see its anus swollen out and leaking redbrown fluid, staining the fur at the base of its obviously broken tail, though the ground underneath doesn’t seem to have become soiled yet. He chokes, throat closing up around nothing at the same time that his body tries to gag, and looks away as quickly as he can, determined to avoid breaking down on public transportation.

He stares down at his feet, intent on keeping his breathing steady, forcing himself to breathe through his nose, slow and more than a little too hard despite his best efforts. He curls his fingers in the fabric of his jeans, squeezes so hard his knuckles go white, and he feels the ache all the way up to his elbows. He blinks furiously, refusing to let himself cry, even though his eyes are definitely getting hazy. Chris is still talking, but Dustin realizes that he’s noticed something is wrong. He can’t quite work out what Chris has said through the deafening rush in his ears, but he can suss out from the tone that he’s asking Dustin a question. He risks a glance up at his face and his expression is pinched, halfway to worry, but still tinged with some annoyance.

Dustin swallows hard and shores up every reserve of strength that he has to say, “Sorry, I have a thing about roadkill.” Chris looks confused, so Dustin tips his head towards the window without moving his eyes and waits for Chris to look.

He seems pretty nonplussed. “Yeah, it’s gross,” he says. “But those things are annoying as fuck. Don’t worry about it.”

Dustin tries to smile and it feels a little bit like a crack spreading through glass before it shatters. He actually likes possums, and any other time he’d be off on a lecture about how beneficial they really are, but today he can’t muster it. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

Chris nods emphatically, as if he’s satisfied with that response, and all Dustin can think is that he wishes Steve were here. He pushes the heels of his hands into his thighs hard enough that he thinks it’ll probably bruise and forces himself not to stop smiling. Steve isn’t his boyfriend, and he’s not here, and he shouldn’t have to babysit Dustin’s feelings every time Dustin sees something he doesn’t want to see, and that’s final. He can fucking handle it.

Chris seems to agree, based on the way he talks Dustin’s ear off all the way back to his dorm, and then starts getting flirty the way he always does when he wants sex. Dustin lets him have what he wants, does his best to moan appropriately and give him a good orgasm. He doesn’t come himself, but he just smiles and tells Chris it’s only because he’s tired, asks if he wants to stay the night or if he’s going to head out. He tries not to cringe when Chris decides to stay the night.

He wakes up several hours later, panic flooding through him like razing fire, sweat soaked and shaking, blind except for the vivid smear of red over the black of night, and gagging on the smell of savage death. It takes him several moments to suss out where he is, why he feels so crowded, why the air smells different than it usually does, and then he realizes it’s because Chris is in bed with him, pressing him back towards the wall with his starfish spread, snoring away, a hint of his cologne still lingering in the air. Dustin sits up, doesn’t even bother to be gentle about it, because his need to not be closed in is so urgent it’s all he can do to remember to breathe. Chris groans beside him and Dustin wishes fervently that he weren’t here.

After several more sharp, aching breaths, Dustin realizes Chris has come fully awake and turned over to look at him. He doesn’t look back, just buries his face in his hands and tries to shut out as many stimuli as possible, tries to remind himself that it was just a dream, tries not to think about the fact that he hasn’t had one of these dreams in _years_.

“What the fuck, Dusty?” Chris asks, voice sleep cracked and deep.

Annoyance flares up inside of him and he snatches it like closing his fist around a firefly on a dark night, grabbing for any light he can find. “Don’t call me that,” he snaps, channeling all his anxiety, and terror, and frustration into it. “Only my mom calls me that. I’ve told you before.” He looks at Chris now, but only for the sake of glaring at him. He’s glad to have something to latch onto that isn’t the bloody, gruesome parade of his dream still marching through his mind.

Chris scowls back. “Not only your mom,” he says, petulant and a little vicious. “ _Steve_ calls you that.”

Dustin gapes for a second, somehow surprised that Chris is bringing Steve up right now, when Dustin is very clearly in the middle of a panic attack, shaking and sweat soaked, and obviously in need of...something that isn’t Chris being jealous. “Okay, fine,” he concedes, helpless. “Only family calls me that.” It doesn’t necessarily encompass the full scope of what Steve means to him, but it’ll do for now, he thinks. It’s enough to end this asinine conversation before it can gather any more steam, and let Dustin focus on getting his heart rate back under control.

“Okay,” Chris says, and it sounds like he wants Dustin to know he’s being magnanimous by letting this go. “Are you okay?” he adds, and Dustin wants to roll his eyes.

“Nightmare,” he says, clipped and snippy. “The roadkill. I have a thing about roadkill.”

Chris stares at him for a long moment, and then replies, “You had a nightmare...because we saw roadkill?” He sounds incredulous, like he thinks maybe Dustin is joking, like he thinks there has to be some other explanation, because this one is just too ridiculous.

Dustin sighs, tips so he’s leaning against the wall, rests his forehead against the cool plaster. “Yeah,” he says, quiet and defeated. “Like I said.”

“Man, that’s kind of a pussy thing to be afraid of.”

Dustin cants a sideways glance in his direction, waiting for anger, or annoyance, or indignation to bubble up again inside of him, but all he feels is tired. His heartbeat has slowed now, but he still feels it going heavy at his pulse points, like a mallet slamming a drum in a relentless, even tempo. He feels a headache building behind his eyes, notices the red creeping around his periphery pulsing in time. “Maybe I’m a pussy, then,” he agrees, exhausted.

“I didn’t mean...” Chris trails off, clearly aware he’s fucked up in some capacity, and unwilling to put himself further in it.

Dustin puts on the ghost of a smile, and feels a small well of fondness in his chest. He’s pretty sure their relationship isn’t going anywhere; pretty sure their compatibility isn’t high enough for it to get really serious, considering this is where they are after six months, but still, he likes Chris well enough, and it amuses him in a gentle sort of way, this backtracking he’s trying to do, the submissive posture he’s trying to sink into, despite it being totally foreign to him. Boy’s a little slow sometimes, Dustin thinks, but he does try. “It’s okay,” he says, and he mostly means it. Maybe just because he’s too tired to be hurt, or maybe because he knows Chris well enough to have expected that type of commentary. He turns his head to look at him fully, and tries to keep his expression soft when he adds, “I do think you should go, though.”

Chris's face crumples in on itself and he looks mad again, but Dustin won’t hold it against him. He wouldn’t want to get kicked out either. “Dustin, it’s the middle of the fucking night,” he says, as if he thinks maybe Dustin doesn’t realize how long they’ve been sleeping.

Dustin shrugs. “I can get you a cab if you don’t want to walk across campus, but I really need to be by myself right now.”

Chris huffs out an annoyed grunt and practically launches himself over the side of the bed. He’s picking his clothes up off the floor in quick, angry movements, and once he has them all dumped in a pile where he was just sitting he says, “No need for a cab, I can fucking walk.”

Dustin sighs. He doesn’t want Chris to leave angry, but he also really doesn’t want to talk about this. So instead, he just watches him get dressed, each article of clothing pulled on more haphazardly than the last, and when he’s finally fully clothed and on the hunt for his keys, Dustin says, “We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? I just need a little while to decompress. Panic attacks do that to me.” It’s an olive branch, and not one easily given, so he hopes to fuck that Chris decides to take it.

For a long moment, he stands there staring at Dustin, keys dangling from his limp hands, only kept from falling by the ring being looped around his middle finger. Finally, the fight goes out of him and his body softens. “Alright,” he says, and comes back over to the bed. He kisses Dustin’s cheek as gently as Dustin thinks he’s probably able, and for his effort, Dustin refuses to let himself flinch, even though in his mind everything around him is still dead, and rotting, and bloody. “Feel better.”

“I will,” Dustin replies. “Be safe.”

Chris just nods and trudges out the door, making very little effort to close it quietly behind him. Immediately, Dustin feels a small measure of relief, notices his shoulders dropping without him having even noticed they’d raised. He breathes, slow and intentional, and focuses his gaze on the window, through which he can see trees backlit by moonlight, and, behind them, the facade of the dorm building across the street, a few windows still yellow with light from inside. He wants to call Steve, because that’s always his first instinct when he’s panicking, but he stamps down on it, tells himself he has to at least wait until morning, for Steve’s sake. Briefly, he considers calling Will, figuring he’ll probably still be up if his usual college weekend hours are anything to go by. He shelves that idea also, not wanting to talk to him about this shit when he knows Will’s baggage is so much worse than his own. There’s no sense bringing up anything that will even imply he remembers what happened all those years ago. The risk of sparking Will’s own memories is too high.

He looks out the window, focuses on counting the branches of the closest tree, concentrates hard because it’s dark and the wind is strong enough to move them. It’s a good enough task to occupy his mind, to keep it from focusing on how he’s sure if he turns on the light, his floor will be littered with carcasses of destroyed animals, and even the fact that he knows they aren’t real won’t be enough to curb his anxiety. By the time the sun comes up, he’s moved on to counting the windows on the building across the street, resolutely ignoring the fact that it would be easier just to do the math, knowing how many rooms and floors there are.

He waits two more hours, and then calls Steve. It’s still a little early, but he’s proud of himself for holding off long enough not to wake him in the middle of the night. He picks up on the third ring, sounding gruff. He goes soft as soon as Dustin identifies himself, though, toeing the line between happy and worried when he says, “Oh hey, Dusty. What’s up?” Dustin can tell he’s fully aware that this is an odd hour to be calling. He probably even realizes that Dustin always intentionally calls later to avoid waking him up.

Dustin swallows, “Nothing. I just had a rough night.” Steve makes a concerned noise, prompting Dustin to continue, so Dustin tells him what happened. He leaves out the possum, because he knows as soon as it came out of his mouth, Steve would be on high alert; knows that even if Steve has forgotten the absolute royal meltdown Dustin had that first time years ago (and God, Dustin hopes to fuck he has), him saying it would probably remind him. He’d rather not remind him of it; would rather let Steve think that he actually does have that particular aspect of his brain under control, that he hasn’t freaked out about dead animals since those first couple of years after everything happened, and that his nightmares now are much more run of the mill. Instead, he just tells him he had a nightmare, with all the emphasis that Steve will understand that it was more than the usual nightmarish fare, and then tells him about Chris’s reaction. He hesitates to call it a fight, but he lets a little venom seep in when he says, “He called me a pussy and I told him to leave.”

Steve is quiet for several long beats, and then he says, voice full of poison and razor blades, and darker than Dustin has ever heard it, “Dusty, you should fucking break up with him.”

It startles him, and warms him, and sends an army of delicate, tasty thrills scampering all through his body, and for the first time since he saw the possum, he doesn’t have dead things lurking in the corners of his mind. He smiles and knows he shouldn’t be so pleased to hear Steve this pissed, or to be given the advice to break up with his boyfriend, but somehow, it’s everything he wants right now and more.

“I think that might be a little harsh, Steve,” he says, but it comes out light and amused, like he thinks Steve is cute and wonderful for making the suggestion. Which, he does, so it’s probably fine, as long as Steve doesn’t pick up on it too much.

Steve scoffs audibly. “I don’t fucking think so, Dusty. He’s been disrespecting you from the start, even though you’ve been totally open and giving him lots of chances, and now he has the nerve to call you names for having a bad reaction to a nightmare? This guy doesn’t fucking deserve you, and you shouldn’t have to try so hard to connect with the person you’re with anyways.” He sounds angry, like he wants to work it out with fists, like he’s been biting down on saying all this for a long time, even though just last week, he’d been sweet and encouraging when Dustin talked to him about it. Then he adds, petulant and savage, “He doesn’t even fuck you right.”

Dustin lets out a bark of laughter before he can stop himself and says, “Oh my god, Steve,” all disbelief and delight. “I thought you wanted me to be open to the relationship growing,” he adds, mostly just teasing, because he’s so fucking charmed by Steve’s sudden heel turn.

“That was _before_ I realized he’s actually a huge fucking asshole, and not just slow on the uptake.”

Dustin hums in agreement, and suddenly, all that anger he couldn’t feel earlier when Chris had made the comment comes to him, easy as slipping into a tub of warm water. He thinks he should be more sad about the prospect of a breakup, maybe a little shaken, but all he feels is amusement at Steve’s attitude, and a hefty portion of relief that finally someone has given him permission he didn’t even realize he was waiting for. “I think you might be right,” he says. “It’s felt pretty lackluster for a while anyways. You know that.”

“He wouldn’t even read _The Hobbit_ for you. I should’ve fucking known when you told me that,” Steve replies. “Even _I_ read _The Hobbit_ and I’m basically illiterate!”

“Steve,” Dustin chides. “You’re dyslexic, not illiterate. Though I am still really happy you read it. I know it’s not easy for you, either way.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve replies, dismissive, just like every other time they have this conversation. “That’s not the point. The point is, he is obviously capable of reading, since he goes to the same college as a brainiac like you, so what fucking excuse does he have other than being a shitty boyfriend that you should break up with?”

Dustin smiles hard enough that it makes his face ache. He has to run his hand over his mouth and press his fingers into his cheeks to make his face relax enough that he can speak. “I’m not arguing, Steve. I think I’ve been looking for a reason for a while now, if I’m being honest. But even if I weren’t, you’re right. I don’t want to be with someone who makes it worse when things are bad.”

“Okay,” Steve says, sounding mollified. He sighs. “I’m sorry, Dusty.” He sounds more sorry than Dustin feels.

“It’s okay. I think I’ve known all along it wasn’t going to work out. All we really ever had in common is our attraction to dick.”

There’s a small huff of laughter on the other end, and then Steve calms again and says, “Yeah, I’m sorry about that, too. But I meant I’m sorry you had such a shitty night. I wish I could’ve been there.”

“It’s okay,” he replies, mellowed by the gentle seriousness in Steve’s tone. “I have to learn to deal with this stuff on my own, or I’m gonna be a fucking disaster of a human. But, I know I can always call you if I really need to.”

“You can,” Steve says quickly. “Any time. You could’ve called me in the middle of the night if you wanted. You didn’t have to wait for morning.”

Dustin’s smile is soft now, secret and fond, and full of everything he feels for Steve that he won’t tell anyone about. “I know,” he says, and it comes out entirely too tender. “I thought about it, but I knew I would be okay if I waited. I don’t want to wake you up unless I have to.”

“As long as you know.”

Dustin reassures him one more time, and then does his best to steer the conversation to other topics, more relaxed just from the act of talking to Steve, even if he doesn’t want to tell him the specifics of what had him so fucked up in the first place. When they hang up, he feels cozy and warm, if a little empty in the face of the conclusion of his first real relationship. He’s come to appreciate the guarantee of companionship, even if it’s not always the most stimulating or pleasurable company he’s had. There’s something to be said for the comfort of just having someone there, even if it’s not the right someone. Still, it will be for the best, he’s sure, and it’s the right thing to do for Chris as well, considering Dustin has seen firsthand the effects of leading someone on once you’re already sure it’s over.

It won’t be easy, but he’s content in the knowledge that it’s what he wants, and that Steve thinks it’s the right thing to do, and that’s enough for the moment.

 


	5. 20 (Revelation)

The summer Dustin turns 20 feels like a hinge on which his life is going to swing open. There is a sense of anticipation zinging across his nerves as he finishes the school year and prepares to go back home, ready to start a summer internship at the biggest (and if he’s being honest, the only) computer tech firm in the area. It’s the type of internship that most people do after their last year of college in an effort to get a leg in the door for a job, or as a way to pad out their resume before entering grad school. He still hasn’t decided which he’s going to do, but he knows that the internship itself will be the kind of experience that’s priceless going forward, and that it’ll give him an academic edge in addition to making him look really exceptional on paper. Never mind the ego boost of knowing he beat out 477 other applicants for the position, most of whom had more academic experience under their belts.

Still, he has two weeks between the end of school and the start of the internship, and the feeling of ozone in his blood is immediate and powerful, like it’s ready to invigorate change in every aspect of his life, not just professionally. He feels like he should be spending his days seeking adventure; like if he did, he’d find something good and wonderful to build his world on and replace all the horrific ideas that dreaming of adventure in Hawkins has come to facilitate. Of course, he _doesn’t_ go adventuring, because life is happening around him, and somehow, it feels almost like an adventure taking care of all the little things around his mom's house that he knows he won't be there to take care of for much longer. He fixes the rain gutters, organizes the storage shed, and sets up a sprinkler system that should be easy enough for her to manage on her own. (When he goes to lay a hose over Mews’s grave, he feels a twinge of guilt and a sharp rush of gooseflesh breaking out on his bare arms and under his shirt, followed quickly by profuse sweating, but it’s been long enough now that he can ignore the feeling when it’s just this setting him off. He just has to breathe and force himself to move on, to ignore the stinging feeling of wanting to shit himself or drop to hands and knees and puke in the dirt.)

When Mike and El announce their engagement, Dustin wonders if maybe this is where the excitement has come from, as if maybe he’d somehow paired psychically with the universe and learned to anticipate the event without even realizing the connection had happened. It certainly feels like a big enough change to facilitate the warm rush of excitement and solid knowledge that things are _happening_ that he’s had, although he’s not totally sold on the idea that someone like him could’ve gone this long without noticing their own prescience. Whatever the case, he’s delighted for his friends, and even more excited when he hears that there’s going to be an engagement party the weekend before his internship starts. It feels like a gift, designed specifically for him, that he’ll get to spend time with all of his favorite people, celebrating and having their own brand of fun as a last hurrah before he begins work. At the same time, having something like this to celebrate seems like a gift for all of them; like some sort of private confirmation for their harrowed little group that, despite all the shit that's happened in this town, there is still goodness to be found in the universe.

It’s nice, he thinks, to be able to witness living proof that love really can make it the distance, when personally he hasn’t had much luck in that arena. He wants to be a romantic, wants to believe in the dream that one day he’ll find his soulmate and everything will come together in that nice little package, where it’s not necessarily always easy, but it’s definitely always worth it. Mike and El have that, and as much as he’ll _never_ admit it to their faces, he admires them for their persistence in the face of adversity, and for the way they have stuck together all this time, supporting each other perpetually. It’s an endlessly pleasant notion for him, and one he can spin daydreams about for hours on end if given the chance, but also something he doesn’t allow himself to indulge in often, considering the state of his own endeavors.

After that first relationship, which he wouldn’t _quite_ classify as a disaster, although it’s a close call, he’s only ever had casual hookups, and not many of those either, as he rather quickly realized that he struggles with sex if it’s not with someone he ostensibly cares about and is committed to. Also, given that, in the circumstance that he is unattached and having sex with someone, he has a really dangerous habit of allowing himself to think about Steve while it’s happening, and that’s not something he wants to encourage in any capacity. He still likes to hope, though; still likes to let himself believe, when he’s alone with his thoughts and has nothing more pressing to think about, that there is someone out there for him. He likes to imagine that, eventually, he’ll find that person with whom he clicks on a comparable level to the way he feels towards Steve; someone who will love him back in more ways than just being a caring friend.

He doesn’t want to replace Steve in his life by any means - the thought of it actually causes his chest to cramp up with the sudden, rushing beat of his heart, painful and sickening in a way not much else is. He just also wants to have romance, and sex, and all the things that come with building a life with a partner the way Mike and El have been consistently doing, and are now promising to keep at forever. It’s a fantasy, and a hope, and something he’ll probably never say out loud to anyone, considering how much of a struggle it is for most people he knows to even get past the fact that he’d want all that with another guy. Still, it’s nice to have something aspirational and celebratory unfolding right in front him, that he can participate in, and possibly get at least a little bit of a contact love high from, if nothing else. So, when the day comes, he’s excited, not just to see his friends and have a fun party, but for the chance to satisfy that secret, small part of himself that’s hungry for romance but never indulged.

He’s catching a ride to the party itself from Steve, because his mom still only has the one car, and she has an appointment today and needs to drive herself (totally fair, considering Dustin’s going to be commandeering the car for the whole rest of the summer, taking her to and from work so that he can drive to his internship a little further away). Steve notices his bubbly mood immediately, and is already smiling, tone fondly teasing when he says, “You know they’re probably gonna be gross the whole time, right?”

Dustin laughs, clicking his seatbelt into place. “Yeah, I know. They always are. But it’s still kind of exciting. It’ll be the first Party wedding.” He feels his cheeks go warm, a small tingle of embarrassment at his own silly enthusiasm. “I think it’s nice.”

Steve’s smile softens, his eyes going a little drowsy with it, and the whole effect makes him look a little bit like some sort of happy owl, just waking up to realize it has treats to eat. “It is,” he agrees, indulgent and maybe even a bit wistful, reminding Dustin that, actually, Steve is the worst romantic of them all, despite not often getting the chance to show it. (He’s had even worse dating luck than Dustin - one girlfriend and one boyfriend since Nancy, both during his college years, and both of whom turned out to be total pieces of shit who’s houses Dustin would happily burn down if only someone would tell him the addresses. He’d even pay for his own fucking matches.)

Dustin leans back in his seat, angling himself so that he can look at Steve while he drives and trying to be subtle about just how smitten he really is. He hopes the fact that Steve can only see him in his periphery means he’ll miss the overtly tender way Dustin is staring at him, quiet and smiling, like maybe Steve is the sun around which the planet Dustin revolves.

The radio is on, but the volume is turned low, only a murmur to cover the rumble of the engine as opposed to something for them to actually listen to. “What do you think we’re gonna do at this thing, anyways?” he asks, to fill up the quiet, and because he loves to watch Steve talk and is hoping to goad him into a ramble.

“Who knows?” His brow furrows just slightly, mouth turning down at the corners as he thinks. “I’ve never been to an engagement party. Are they different than normal parties?”

Dustin shrugs. “I dunno. I wasn’t sure if it was more like a baby shower. Where there’s, like...themed activities or whatever?”

Steve casts a quick glance his direction and is back to smiling. “What kind of themed activities are you imagining? I’m pretty sure all the traditions in this realm are for the actual wedding.”

Dustin huffs out a small, agreeable laugh and tries to think of something. He's still trying to concoct some sort of bizarre engagement party ritual that might make Steve smile and laugh to hear about when Steve hums quietly and says, calm and sure, “Dusty, close your eyes for me, okay?”

Dustin does, because he has no reason not to, and because Steve asked him to, and because he sounded so very gentle when he said it that Dustin’s not sure he could ever tell him no, even if he tried. “Okay.” There’s laughter in his voice, because he’s still half thinking about stupid party ideas, and he thinks maybe Steve is going to turn this into some kind of joke. “Care to tell me why I’m doing this?”

Steve just makes a soft noise in his throat and remains quiet for another few seconds before replying, “Nothing. Just something in the road you don’t want to see. You can open them now.”

 _Roadkill,_ he thinks, immediately. There’s a dead animal in the road, and Steve noticed it before he did. Steve noticed it and remembered, even after all these years, and despite all of Dustin’s efforts to pretend it’s not a problem anymore, that Dustin doesn’t handle that kind of thing very well.

He feels the breath rush out of him so quickly it’s almost painful, leaving his chest aching and caved in on itself, all the joviality stripped out of him on that same violent gust. He looks at Steve and tries to bite down on the whimpery, animal grunt that wants to force its way out of his throat. Steve’s expression is solemn, edging into concern, his brows drawn down over his eyes at a sad angle, mouth set in a soft line, but still, he looks tender, somehow. He looks worried and protective, but also serene, like maybe it’s just a small thing to him that he still remembers the things that haunt Dustin, despite Dustin doing his best to hide it from him; like, somehow, despite the tinge of worry, and his unquestionable willingness to step in and protect Dustin, it’s not something he needs to think about or dwell on, and not something he expects Dustin to dwell on either. He looks like he plans to just keep on driving and not acknowledge at all the magnitude of suffering he’s probably just prevented by shielding Dustin from his fears without being asked.

“Steve.” It comes out quiet, half choked on the lump in his throat. “Can you pull over, please?”

Steve casts a sideways glance at him, already flipping on his turn signal and pulling off to the shoulder when he replies, “Yeah, of course. Are you okay? Should I not have said that?” He sounds anxious, and guilty, and just this side of tense, though he’s visibly trying to stay relaxed. It’s as if he genuinely thinks Dustin could be feeling anything but overwhelmed by the sudden and devastating realization of how much Steve must actually care, to have remembered something like this after years of Dustin trying to make him forget.

“No,” Dustin says, grasping desperately for a comforting tone, but falling mostly in the realm of utterly devastated instead. “I’m okay. I just...” He has to look away from Steve, too distracted by his pretty face broken open and showing a sort of vulnerable, bruised care that is far too reminiscent of the way Dustin feels when he thinks about Steve. He breathes deep, lungs hitching around the sudden urge to cry, and says, accusatory, “You remembered.”

He looks back, because he needs to see Steve’s face, and regrets it immediately, but can’t force himself to look away again. Steve looks shattered, his eyes wide and glassy, like maybe Dustin’s urge to cry is contagious, his mouth dropped open just the slightest bit, surprised and unsure. He also looks terrified, the way he always seems to when he thinks he’s done something wrong, and Dustin realizes that his tone was, perhaps, a little harsh. He realizes that Steve doesn’t understand how devastating it is to be in love with him and discover yet again how incredibly wonderful he is. He wants to say something, to take it back, or soften the blow, but he can’t trust himself not to sound broken in a way that will make Steve feel worse, so he just looks at him, tries to school his face into an expression that’s reasonable for the situation, or at the very least, an expression that won’t make Steve think he’s been bad.

Steve gapes for a moment longer, then swallows visibly and Dustin’s breath catches watching the way his face changes, the fear and guilt sliding away, replaced by a gentle mix of fondness and melancholy. “Of course I remembered,” he says, as if it’s obvious and he’s hurt that Dustin would think him capable of forgetting. “Dusty, I care about you.”

The noise he’s been trying to hold in finally makes it’s way up his throat in the form of a whimper, quick and agonized, loud in the quiet of the car, and gratingly harsh next to the gentleness of Steve’s voice. “Steve,” he whines, and doesn’t even know what he’s trying to get out of this conversation, just feels like he’s losing his fucking mind, overwhelmed, and in love, and grievously injured by the fact that Steve cares enough to protect him.

It’s as if all of the excitement and romanticism of the day has primed him to be especially vulnerable, and Steve having the audacity to do exactly what Dustin needed him to do, at this exact moment, has rendered him totally incapable of functioning without acting like a fucking crazy person, and probably ruining everything forever, because he’s relatively certain at this point that he’s not getting out of today without spilling all the beans on his biggest secret.

Steve is unbuckling his seatbelt now, then reaching across and unbuckling Dustin’s as well, face unreadable, at least for Dustin’s current, extremely limited capabilities. He carefully holds the seatbelt out of the way and works it around Dustin’s body, so it doesn’t hit him in the face. And then, for some inexplicable reason, his hand is on Dustin’s cheek, big, and warm, and soft, and Dustin thinks he’s going to cry soon if Steve doesn’t stop doing nice things. He really can’t fucking handle any more. Not on a day like today, not after what just happened, not with the knowledge that he could currently be having a panic attack about something far more diabolical if it weren’t for Steve, who is touching his face, and looking at him like he’s important, even though Dustin’s pretty fucking sure that Steve is the only important person on the entire planet right now.

“Dusty,” Steve says again, but this time it sounds a whole fucking hell of a lot like some sort of declaration, and Dustin’s heart skips so hard he almost chokes on it.  He feels powerless to do anything but press his face into Steve’s hand, because it feels so fucking nice, and he’s still pretty sure everything is about to blow up in his face, or he’s about to wake up and realize this is a dream, or any number of other explanations of current events that are far more plausible than Steve actually looking at him like that. His breath hitches, and the world goes wobbly around the edges as his eyes grow hot.

“Steve, I fucked up,” he says, because at this point, he has to confess, or he’s going to feel guilty forever about letting Steve treat him this way without telling him the full implications. “I fucked up,” he says again, and it comes out fractious, like he’s about to start hyperventilating.

Steve leans a little more into his space, as gracefully as the center console will let him, braces his other hand on Dustin’s seat, by his thigh, and says more gently than Dustin’s ever heard him say anything before, “I don’t think you did, Dusty.”

Dustin makes another confused sort of noise, unable to formulate any sort of real response. His face feels so hot it’s almost painful, but still, he only wants to nuzzle further into the cup of Steve’s hand and let himself drown in the look Steve is giving him. He wants to hope; wants to take every little piece of affection Steve is giving him and combine them with the knowledge that Steve has remembered the darkest thing about Dustin all this time, just so he can protect him from it, and he wants to make assumptions that are dangerous and painful and altogether far too fucking desperate to be okay. He wants to kiss Steve.

He doesn’t have to. Steve kisses him first, movements so slow and careful, so obviously telegraphed that, if Dustin had a single inkling to do so, he absolutely could’ve put a stop to it. Instead he sits frozen, aware of what’s about to happen, but unable to really comprehend it, until Steve’s mouth is on his, palm still warm against his cheek, fingertips pressed delicately to the edges of Dustin’s jaw, tilting his head to give Steve an angle that makes this possible despite him being spread awkwardly across the car. Dustin hears himself making a confused noise in his chest, feels Steve’s smile against his mouth, hears him hum delicately in reply, and all at once his brain and body catch up and fling him on board. He kisses Steve back.

It feels like the world is ending, reminds Dustin that only a few minutes ago he’d compared Steve to a sun around which he orbits, and the comparison seems even more apt, considering the absolute annihilation going on inside of him now that they’ve collided. The kiss itself is slow and easy, Steve’s mouth soft and a little bit playful, tongue barely darting out to tease at Dustin’s lips before he chastens again, drawing Dustin to him, forcing him to take action if he wants any more than that. Dustin turns into it, brings his hands to rest at Steve’s neck, thumbs pressed up into the soft spots under Steve’s jaw, careful and hyper aware of the pressure he’s applying - only enough to tip Steve’s head back a tiny amount, to give himself leverage to lick him open and take control of the kiss.

Steve whimpers, his hand dropping to Dustin’s chest, fingers curling tightly in his shirt, and lets Dustin do what he wants, responds in kind, but not aggressively. Dustin thinks he could go on forever, thinks that if he died right now, it would be alright, because he got to hear that sound, to feel Steve go pliant for him, to taste Steve and know that he could take more if he wanted. Instead, he notices that the arm Steve is bracing his weight on is shaking, feels the tremors in his own body where they are relayed through the seat, and decides that maybe this is not the most ideal time or place to keep going, no matter how fucking devastated he really feels.

He pulls back slowly, reluctant and careful at the same time, and is somewhat delighted when Steve chases his mouth for a few more quick kisses before he’s willing to let Dustin go completely. Then they’re just looking at each other, faces close enough together that Dustin can only really take in one or two of Steve’s features at a time, but that’s fine. He’s perfectly happy to let his eyes roam Steve’s face, to take in the way his pretty eyes have gone dark, the way his cheeks are flushed, the pink of his blush spreading over the bridge of his nose, and out to his ears. He looks at Steve’s mouth, and it’s an effort not to simply kiss him again, taken as he is by the elegant part of his lips, just barely open, and the delicate uptick at the corners. When he lets his gaze drift back up to meet Steve’s, the smile becomes more real, crinkling the corners of his eyes as he gives a pleased little hum. “I’m really in love with you,” Steve says, and Dustin feels like someone has put a soft light filter over his entire world, like there should be birds chirping and romantic music swelling, or some other equally cheesy outward effect to indicate that everything inside of him is suddenly experiencing the effervescence of every romantic idea he’s ever had into reality.

He giggles. It bubbles up out of him before he even realizes it’s building, and any other time he’d probably cringe at how much he sounds like his teenage self, but right now it’s all he can really do, because he’s so happy he can’t formulate any other way to interact with the moment. So, he giggles, and then he brings his hands up to cover his mouth, because he can feel it about to happen again. Steve’s face lights up even more, and it makes Dustin’s insides feel like they’re made of marshmallows, all sweet, and puffy, and soft. He drops his hands just enough to say, “I’m in love with you, too.” Then immediately covers his mouth again, because there’s more delighted laughter coming up in him.

Steve is grinning when he says, “I think I need to go back to my side of the car, because my arm is gonna fall off, but just so you know, I really don’t want to. And also this whole schoolgirl laugh you’ve got going on right now is really cute.”

Dustin just nods, hands still clamped over his mouth, smiling so hard he’s sure it’s showing around his eyes. “Sorry,” he says, muffled and barely distinguishable. “I’m really happy.”

Steve settles back into his seat, shaking his arm lightly and saying with affection so warm it feels like the sun on Dustin’s face, “I’m glad you’re happy. I’m happy too.” Then he winks, and Dustin’s heart skips a beat so suddenly he feels like he’s just tripped off the edge of a cliff. He stares for another long moment, during which Steve stares back, arms resting on the steering wheel, cheek resting on his arms, smiling dreamily, as if he’s really just that pleased to be here watching Dustin try to get himself together after kissing him.

When he thinks he'll be able to talk without immediately bursting into jubilant hysterics again, he says, “Please do not tell any of our friends that I reacted like a twelve year old when you kissed me.”

Steve smiles even harder, bites his bottom lip a little, and replies, conspiratorial, “I’ll tell them you were very suave and swept me off my feet.” He sits back and snags his sunglasses from the dash, slipping them on as he adds, “So cool, there’s no way I could’ve resisted.” Dustin swears he’s never seen anyone look so fucking good putting a seatbelt on. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” he says, dazed. He clears his throat and goes to put his own seatbelt back on. “Yeah, we’re gonna be late.”

Dustin’s pretty sure Steve’s content little smile as he pulls back onto the road could resurrect him from the dead if the need arose.

 


	6. Epilogue

It’s late evening by the time the engagement party winds down, and the sky is already fading from candy apple red to varying shades of violet as he and Steve make their way back the car, which is parked several blocks away thanks to limited parking at Mike and El's apartment complex. Steve’s fingers are laced loosely with Dustin’s, and every few steps, he swings their arms playfully, which inevitably makes Dustin giggle and then cast him a reproachful look.

“You’re not supposed to make me act like an idiot,” he says, after the fifth time Steve does it. “I’m a grown ass adult. I’m supposed to be chill.”

Steve smiles, eyes soft. “You being chill is nowhere on the list of reasons I like you, Dusty. Which is convenient, because I'm well aware that you haven't actually ever been chill in your whole life, adult or not.”

Dustin plays at pouting, but can’t hold onto it for long, too pleased with the knowledge that Steve teasing him now is different than Steve teasing him before, because now Steve  _loves_ him. “Okay,” he concedes. “Fair point.”

They walk in companionable silence for another minute or two, until the car is in sight, at which point Steve pulls him to a stop, lingering at the edge of a yellow pool of light from the nearest street lamp. “Hey, Dusty?” he says, quiet and shy, and lets go of Dustin in order to put both his hands in his pockets. His shoulders curl in a little bit, and he looks painfully small, glancing up at Dustin from under the hair he’s let fall over his face. “Do you maybe wanna come home with me tonight?”

Dustin’s heart leaps savagely into his throat, and it takes a monumental amount of effort to avoid letting out some sort of ragged, excited moan right there in the middle of the street. He knows there’s a possibility Steve is asking him for some reason other than sex, but the way Steve’s hunched in on himself, blushing hard enough to be seen even at the edge of the lamplight, hands tucked defensively into his jeans, Dustin thinks it’s fair to assume that isn’t the case. He smiles, feels it break over his face like the sun cresting the horizon, all wonder, and heat, and revelation turned outward for the world to see. “Yeah,” he says, and is surprised by how firm he sounds, considering he’s been giggly and ridiculous all afternoon. “I’d like that a lot.”

Steve bites his lip as his smile returns, and the effect of it is absolutely calamitous. Dustin’s breath stops short so quickly it becomes an audible gasp, and suddenly there’s no smile on his face, because his mouth has dropped open in awe. “Jesus,” he says, dazed. “You’re really beautiful.”

Steve looks stricken, and then, slowly, like pouring honey over the lip of the jar, his face illuminates again, his posture opens up, and he pulls his hands out of his pockets. “There’s the suave Dustin I’m going to tell everyone about,” he teases, and slides his fingers delicately over the knob of Dustin’s wrist, waiting for him to turn his hand over to join them together. When Dustin has gotten with the program and laced their fingers together, he leans in close, nuzzling lightly at Dustin’s temple, and says, “You’re looking pretty good yourself.”

His breath is warm on Dustin’s ear, and he follows up by pressing a delicate kiss to his temple, which has the twofold effect of totally removing Dustin's ability to snark back, and also causing him to turn his body a little more into Steve's, so that the rest of their walk is hampered by their uncoordinated proximity. Steve doesn’t complain, though, only holds tighter to Dustin’s hand and laughs, low and gentle, like he’s honestly just as pleased by all this as Dustin, even if he’s slightly more composed about it.

By the time they get back to Steve’s place, Dustin is a little less giddy and lot more antsy. He’s not  _nervous_  necessarily, because he knows well enough what he’s doing, and this is Steve, who is pretty much the only person in the world he would trust implicitly with these types of things, but still. There’s a sort of jittery buzzing under his skin that’s making his palms sweaty and his heartbeat somewhat frenzied. He must look the part, too, because once they’re inside and Steve’s turned the lights on, he pauses to take Dustin’s hand again and says, gentle and firm, “Dusty, we don’t have to do this tonight if you’re not ready. You can still stay.”

“No,” he replies, steadied by Steve’s hand holding his, Steve’s compassion and care in this moment a clear and stabilizing reminder of all the reasons Dustin fell in love with him in the first place. “I want to. I’m just...” He has to think carefully about what he wants to say, isn't really sure the best way to encapsulate why he’s so on edge. He releases a long, shaky breath. “You’re more important than anyone else I’ve done this with, and I want it a lot. It’s overwhelming.”

Steve smiles, soft and serious, and steps further into Dustin’s space, letting go of his hand, but only so that he can touch Dustin’s face, his palms warm on Dustin’s cheeks, one thumb tracing a placid arc over his bottom lip. “I get it.” He rests his forehead against Dustin’s and breathes a quiet sigh. “I love you.”

Dustin can’t help but smile. “I love you, too.” He tilts his head to nuzzle into Steve’s left hand, presses a kiss into his palm and then looks back at him, calmed enough that he's comfortable letting his smile go a little impish. “I think we should probably start with some kissing.”

Steve laughs, and Dustin feels the rumble of it under his palms where they’ve come to rest on Steve’s chest. “Cheeky,” he says, mouth close enough that Dustin can feel his lips moving.

He presses up, kissing Steve closed mouth, just long enough to distract him, and then pulling away altogether. “Yes, and I'm pretty sure cheeky is definitely on the list of reasons you love me.” He steps out of Steve’s reach, and twirls with a flourish towards the hallway that leads to the bedroom. “I think we should do this in the target location to save ourselves some trouble in a few minutes.” He doesn’t wait to see Steve’s reaction, just walks down the hall and knows Steve is following, because his laughter is close behind. When he flings himself onto the unmade bed, as dramatically as he can manage, Steve is already leaning in the doorway watching him. Dustin grins and lets himself starfish out as much as he can. “It’s good we’re doing this at your place and not mine.” He props himself up on his elbows and adds sardonically, “My bed’s a twin.”

Steve stays in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, looking at him in a way that Dustin can only describe as fondly heated. Dustin bends one of his knees and cants his hips a little, cocking his head to the side and waiting to see if Steve will respond to the invitation.

“Jesus,” Steve mutters, and stalks over to the bed. He wraps his fingers around the ankle of Dustin’s bent leg and pulls, straightening him out enough that Steve can straddle his hips. Dustin’s breath catches, but the nerves are gone, at least for now, replaced with a sense of familiarity and warmth that he can only really get from Steve. “Do you know,” Steve says, and plants his hands on Dustin’s shoulders, leaning forward to press him back into the mattress. “How much of a fucking tease you are?”

Dustin laughs, delighted and baffled by the accusation. “I think you should tell me about it, because I absolutely do not know what you’re talking about.” He puts his hands on Steve’s hips, slides his thumbs up under the hem of his shirt, and revels in the way Steve flinches against him, thighs going a little tighter over his hips, pelvis arching into the touch.

“You have been telling me all about your sex life for years,” he says, teasing, and accusatory, and a little too breathless not to make heat pool up in Dustin’s belly.

Still, “My sex life is terrible though? Current situation notwithstanding. I have been  _complaining_  about it for years.”

Steve rolls his eyes and drops down, elbows braced on the mattress by Dustin’s shoulders, nose just barely brushing against Dustin’s. “You complained constantly to me about how Captain Asshole couldn't make you come when he fucked you, and  _then_  made sure to tell me that he  _always_ came when you fucked him, even though he supposedly didn't like it.”

“Oh.” He presses his hands up further under Steve’s shirt and lets one of his thumbs trace the trail of hair under his navel. Steve shudders, his eyes dropping closed for a quick moment, and when he opens them again, they’re are all dark. “Do you like being fucked, Steve?” He says it like a secret, whisper quiet and with an edge of desperation about it, because, suddenly, he realizes that, as much as he would be happy to have anything with Steve, he  _really_  wants this most of all.

Steve whimpers and presses his hips down into Dustin’s at just the right angle for Dustin to feel that he’s already mostly hard. “ _Yes_.”

There is a beat where Dustin is too caught off guard to do anything but stare up at him, hands going even tighter on his body, and then Steve shifts again, moving his weight to one arm so he can touch Dustin’s face, fingertips barely brushing over his jaw, and miraculously, Dustin remembers to kiss him. It’s not much of an effort to slot their mouths together, Steve hovering so close already. All Dustin has to do is lean up the tiniest bit, until Steve gets the signal and leans down the other tiniest bit to meet him, and then they’re kissing, and Dustin is licking up into his mouth like Steve can tell him all the secrets of the universe, but only if their tongues are touching.

Steve whines, hand dropping to Dustin’s chest, holding on tight to his shirt as he presses his hips down and lets himself be kissed. Dustin wants to touch his face, to run his hands along Steve’s neck and over his jaw, to guide him and make sure he knows that he’s doing everything Dustin wants him to, but his hands are already occupied under Steve’s shirt, so instead he moans, arches up into him, and runs his hands gently up Steve’s ribs, pausing to thumb at one of his nipples, because he wants to know if Steve is sensitive there.

He is. Enough so that he breaks the kiss to make an affronted, desperate sort of sound. He sits back far enough to look Dustin in the face, and he seems a little devastated, eyes glassy and dark, mouth already swollen up, skin flushed all the way down his neck and under his collar. “Dusty,” he says, deep and breathy, and it rocks through Dustin’s body like a physical sensation until he has to bite down on a moan. He arches his hips up into Steve and realizes that he’s just as hard as Steve now.

“Steve,” he replies, and tries to play it off as sardonic, a play on people greeting each other like this in the movies, but it comes out as more of a whimper.

Steve smiles, soft and a little shy, and sits back further on his haunches, seating himself fully upright astride Dustin’s thighs. Then, he curls his fingers tighter in Dustin’s shirt and pulls until Dustin sits up to meet him. “I think there are too many clothes in this bed right now.”

Dustin can’t help but smile back, has to lean in and steal one more little kiss before he answers, sliding his hands back up along Steve’s ribs, this time making sure to use his wrists to drag the shirt up with the movement. “I’m inclined to agree.”

Steve’s smile changes into a grin, cheeky and sweet, and he leans back enough to make room, lifting his arms. When the shirt is up around his neck, Steve moves to pull it the rest of the way off, and Dustin is taken aback by how enchanted he is by Steve’s armpits. He realizes that, as much as he’s seen Steve without his shirt on, he’s never really paid enough attention to notice them. Now he looks, as Steve’s arms are raised, and can’t help but press a thumb into the dip of one, marveling at how soft the hair is. Steve flinches and lets out a sharp little yelp, finishing pulling his shirt over his head in a quick movement and tossing it aside as he drops his arms, trapping Dustin’s hand where it is.

“Sorry,” Dustin murmurs, and feels genuinely bad for accidentally tickling him. “You have really pretty armpits.”

There is a beat of silence, and then he realizes what he just said and feels his entire face go hot. “I mean, uh...”

Steve is just looking at him, amused and fond, presumably waiting to see how Dustin will dig himself out of this one, but he’s at a loss, so instead he just leans forward to hide his face in Steve’s neck. “Please help me out, here. I meant what I said, even though it’s weird.”

Steve laughs, deep and rich, and the vibration of it rolls through Dustin’s body, covering all of his embarrassment in a new layer of want. “I’m not gonna hold my arms up in the air,” Steve says, and nuzzles gently at Dustin’s hair, hand coming to rest on the back of his neck, hot, and just this side of squeezing too hard (exactly the way it always is when Dustin needs comforting). “But if you put me on my back, you can look at my armpits all you like.”

Dustin moans, mouth open against Steve’s neck, and is so overwhelmed, he feels like he might as well be a virgin. “Steve...” He doesn’t know what he wants to say, just knows he’s more turned on than he’s ever been in his life, much less while still fully clothed. His hand is warm where it’s still trapped under Steve’s arm, and he wonders if he should be disturbed that he gets a little thrill from thinking that Steve will probably start sweating soon if he doesn’t move it. He feels totally out of his depth, and he can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed by it, considering how much he likes the feeling of Steve’s weight heavy in his lap and that hand comforting on the back of his neck.

“It’s okay, Dusty. I’ve got you.” He sits back, hand still on Dustin’s neck, but putting space between their bodies and leaving Dustin’s face exposed. He presses his other hand briefly against Dustin’s cheek, and then drops both hands to Dustin’s waist, fingering the hem of his shirt. “One step at a time, yeah?”

Dustin is so in love with him it feels like a fist to his solar plexus, makes his whole torso ache with how hard he clenches up at the sight of him, his face all soft and purposefully gentle, trying to coax Dustin through what should, in reality, not be such an earth shattering thing, except that it fucking is. “Sorry,” Dustin says, and thinks he might be close to tears, which is just fucking stupid. “I swear I’m gonna get it together here in a minute.”

“You’re doing fine. You already told me you’re overwhelmed.” Steve kisses his forehead. “Can I take your shirt off?”

“Yeah.” He laughs, quiet and breathy, because it’s a little ridiculous that he hasn’t even gotten his shirt off and he’s already this broken up about the proceedings. He wasn’t even this messed up when it actually  _was_  his first time. Steve is still looking at him all gentle and happy, like, even though Dustin’s being a dumbass, he’s still pleased with how all this is going, and the security that gives him is enough to get him through letting Steve peel his shirt off. Steve has seen him shirtless before, he reminds himself, before he can get self conscious about his body in addition to everything else. Steve already knows what he looks like and he still wants him.

It’s still nice when Steve puts his hands on Dustin’s chest and kisses him like maybe he’s a little fucked up about all this, too. It lets Dustin calm down, focusing on the fact that Steve might need him just as much as he needs Steve, even if he’s more reserved about showing it. Dustin kisses him back, and, this time, he does put his hands on Steve’s face, cups his jaw as gently as he can, and lets one hand slide around into his hair, pulling just the tiniest bit to get a reaction out of him. Steve doesn’t disappoint. He arches into Dustin, and whimpers, and presses his fingertips hard into Dustin’s chest, like he wants to hold on. Then, when Dustin pulls again, still not enough to really hurt, but a little more than the first time, Steve uses his leverage to tip them back, careful not to jar them enough to break the kiss.

They stay like that a while longer, lazily making out, Steve rolling his hips in slow, easy movements, not really giving any sort of friction, but reminding Dustin with a sort of gentle persistence that they’re both still hard, and that there’s more to come, whenever they get around to it. Dustin wants to get around to it. He knows that Steve is taking it slow for his benefit, so he drops his hands to Steve’s hips, trails his fingers across his pelvis, trying not to tickle him again, and rests them at the top of his jeans, just above his belt. Steve moans, lifts his hips to give Dustin a little more room, and pulls away just enough to say against his mouth, “Go ahead.”

Dustin’s hands are shaking, but he does his best to ignore it, reminds himself that he’s done this plenty of times before, and that he wants Steve more than he’s ever wanted anyone else in his entire life. It still takes him a few tries to get the belt open, but Steve just stays where he is, letting Dustin do his thing and nuzzling affectionately at his temple while he does, which is sweet, and very distracting. He’s a little quicker on the button and zipper, and then he has to take a moment to calm the fuck down again, because with his jeans open, Dustin can see the outline of Steve’s dick in his underwear, can feel the heat of him radiating, and see the tiny spot of wet that’s already gathering at his hip where he’s leaked. He touches the spot, presses two fingers reverently against it and tries not to die when Steve moans and drops against him, burying his face in Dustin’s neck and pressing harder against his hand, still holding himself up, but only just.

“Dusty, please.” His breath is hot on Dustin’s neck, and there’s a sort of desperation in his voice that makes everything in Dustin come grinding to a halt, only to rearrange itself into the order that Dustin has been looking for since they started. He wants to take care of Steve. He wants to give him everything he wants, and make him feel good, and watch him come undone, and show him how much he loves him, and he wants to do it  _now_.

He puts his hand on the back of Steve’s neck, a tender imitation of what Steve always does to comfort him, and presses a kiss into his hair. “Let’s turn over. I want you on your back.”

Steve clings to him for another moment, and then makes a quiet, agreeable sort of sound, peeling himself up reluctantly and then rolling to the side and onto his back with very little finesse. He ends up mirroring how Dustin had been laying earlier, propped on his elbows, one knee raised, looking at Dustin like he’s a little bit adrift and waiting for an anchor. Dustin sits up and goes onto his knees at Steve’s hip, laying his palm flat on Steve’s belly and relishing the way Steve flinches up into the touch.

“Fuck, Dusty. I know I said we could go slow, but I’d really like you to fuck me soon.”

Dustin smiles, knows he is probably blushing in a very unflattering way, and can’t quite seem to care. “Can’t argue with that,” he says, still a little shaky, but with enough confidence to pass. “Let’s get you out of these.” He pulls delicately at the open waistband of Steve’s jeans and can’t help but keep touching him as he immediately gets to work shucking them off himself. He puts his hand back on Steve’s belly while he works, moves with him to avoid getting in the way, and then when Steve has resorted to kicking futilely to get them over his ankles, he moves to help pull them off, dropping them over the edge of the bed and settling between Steve’s thighs, now that he’s in a better spot to get there.

Steve reaches for him, so Dustin leans in further, Steve’s thighs snug around his hips as Steve’s hands find his sides and pull him in for a kiss. It’s good like this, Steve under him and open for him, letting Dustin run his hand up his thigh and over his ribs and through his hair as they kiss. It feels right, even more so when Steve wiggles around enough to get his hands between them and start working on Dustin’s pants, fingers fumbling a little, because they’re still kissing and he can’t see what he’s doing. It’s not until Steve gets his pants all the way open and pauses, fingers lingering at the top of his underwear, a soft little noise of confusion in his throat, that Dustin remembers.

He pulls out of the kiss with a little thrill of panic, looks down his own body and feels it turn into more of an inescapable tidal wave. He doesn’t wear them all the time, pretty rarely in fact, but this morning he’d been in such a good mood, and he hadn’t been planning on anyone seeing, and silk and lace seemed to fit the romanticism of the moment. Now, looking at Steve’s fingers resting delicately on the lace at the top, he’s full of regret and struggling to breathe. “I can explain that,” he says, but it comes out in a panicked, stuttering rush. He looks back up at Steve’s face and wants to cry. He puts the hand that was on Steve over his mouth to stifle any noise and tries his best not to make eye contact, doesn’t want to actually take in Steve’s expression, because he’s terrified of what he’ll notice if he does.

“Dusty,” Steve says, tender and melancholy. “You don’t have to explain.” He sits up enough that Dustin has to either look at him or lean back and sit up himself. He goes, because he’s not sure he can handle everything crashing down around him right now, but Steve just follows him, sitting up until his knees are pressed into Dustin’s ribs and their faces are close enough that Dustin can feel him breathing. “Dusty,” he says again, and loops his fingers loosely around the wrist of the hand Dustin has clamped over his mouth. “Look at me, please.”

He sounds so fucking sad that Dustin can’t help but look at him, can’t stand the idea that he’s making Steve feel bad, even if he’s dreading what will happen. Steve is smiling, though, soft, and painful, and so full of affection that it makes Dustin’s breath hitch in a way that is dangerously close to a sob. He drops his hand away from his mouth and lets Steve hold it to his chest, because that seems to be what he wants. “It’s not a kink thing,” he says, because even though Steve said he didn’t have to explain, he has an overwhelming need to do it anyways. “They’re just nice to wear sometimes.” He sounds half a breath away from crying, and Steve’s other hand is cupping his face now, thumb tracing gentle lines over the apple of his cheek.

“I believe you, Dusty.” He squeezes gently at Dustin’s wrist where he’s holding it against his chest, and Dustin can feel Steve’s heart beating calm and steady against the side of his hand. “But I wouldn’t mind if it were a kink thing. I don’t care, as long as it makes you happy.” He kisses Dustin’s other cheek, slow and gentle, as if he’s wary of startling him, and the pulls back and makes sure he has eye contact before continuing. “They look really good on you.”

Dustin takes another deep, hitching breath, and looks at Steve for a long moment. He knows Steve wouldn’t lie to him about something like this, knows that he would be sweet enough to be gentle about letting him down, but wouldn’t lie, because he’s been lied to too many times by people he cared about to ever be able to do it himself. Still, even as he feels himself relaxing in small increments, becoming less aware of the feeling of impending doom crowding up inside his chest and more aware of the heat of Steve’s thighs against his sides and the press of his still hard dick between them, he’s not sure. “You don’t have to say that, you know.” He hates himself a little for saying it, because he knows there’s an accusation there, an implication that he thinks Steve is lying, even though he knows it’s actually just his own stupid brain being rude.

Steve just smiles, though, soft and easy, like he understands. “I know, Dusty. I said it because I meant it.” He turns Dustin’s hand in his, pressing it flat against his chest so Dustin can feel his heartbeat through his whole palm, and then lets go, dropping his hand down between them to touch the lace at Dustin’s open fly again. “It suits you, and I want you to wear whatever makes you feel good.”

Dustin kisses him, a little too hard and a little too sudden, enough so that it sends them toppling back, their teeth clicking against each other when Steve catches their weight on his arm to stop them falling completely. It’s okay, though, because then Steve is kissing him back, and the hand that isn’t holding them up is on Dustin’s back, running over his spine and under his jeans to grab at Dustin’s ass to pull him closer. Steve arches up into him and Dustin loses his way with the kissing a little bit, whimpering into Steve’s mouth when their dicks rub up against each other with only underwear in the way.

Steve pulls away, nipping gently at Dustin’s lower lip, and then again at his jaw, before he leans out completely and starts pulling at Dustin’s jeans with his free hand, totally ineffective. “Can you just get up and take these off, please? I need them to be off.” He sounds genuinely annoyed, and more than a little desperate, and Dustin has no desire to make him wait, so he gets up and does his best to get out of them as quickly as possible. Steve makes a choked off sound when he finally throws them to the side, and when Dustin looks back at him, he looks wrecked.

Dustin smiles, awed, and delighted, and grateful and every other good emotion he could possibly think of, because he’s here, doing this with Steve, and he accidentally showed Steve a secret he never thought anyone would know, and from the looks of it, Steve is pretty fucking turned on by the whole affair.

“While I’m up,” Dustin says, because he realizes that he does not want to have to leave Steve on the bed by himself again. “Where are your lube and condoms?”

Steve laughs and lets himself flop back against the mattress, hands covering his eyes. “You always were the smart one. They’re in the top drawer.” He points with one hand towards the bedside table closest to Dustin. Dustin finds them easily enough, and tosses them onto the sheets by Steve’s hip before finally crawling back onto the bed and settling again between Steve’s thighs.

He puts one hand on Steve’s hip and leans forward enough to look him in the eye while he’s laying back. “Not that I don’t want to keep kissing you and stuff, but after this emotional roller coaster, I kind of want to get inside you. Are you cool if we just skip to that part now?”

Looking at Steve’s smile as it blossoms into a heated, satisfied grin feels something like what Dustin imagines looking at a star going supernova would. “You always have the best plans.” He laughs, fond and a bit saucy, and lifts his hips as much as he can. Dustin smiles back, hooks his fingers under the elastic of Steve's underwear, and pulls them down as he leans back. Steve helpfully bends one knee and then the other to give Dustin the chance to get them off, and then Dustin’s left breathless for another quick moment as he looks at him, naked, and hard, and spread out in front of Dustin, wanting to be fucked.

“Jesus, you really are fucking beautiful.”

Steve looks away, biting his lip, and shifting around, looking uncomfortable. Dustin thinks he must not be entirely used to receiving compliments, at least not in this context. Still, he presses a thigh gently against Dustin’s side and mumbles a quiet, “Thanks,” as though he can’t fucking stand it. It makes Dustin want to compliment him more, so that it becomes so commonplace he maybe won’t even notice it happening. He doesn’t want to push it right now, though, since Steve seems to have gone a bit shy, so instead he runs a hand over his thigh and then lays it flat on his hip, close enough that he can feel the heat of Steve’s erection radiating. Steve’s dick twitches a little, and he looks back at Dustin, reproachfully. “Dusty, don’t tease. Please.”

“Sorry,” he says, and means it completely. “It’s not on purpose, I promise.” He touches Steve’s dick then, because it seems like the right thing to do, and because he rather desperately wants to. It’s kind of perfect, he thinks, a little darker than the pale skin of Steve’s belly and thighs, flushed a dusky pink at the tip, and a little shiny, because Steve apparently leaks more than Dustin is used to. He’s thick enough to feel heavy in Dustin’s hand, but not uncomfortable to hold, and Dustin would venture to say, he’s longer than average. More importantly, he flinches into the touch with his whole body, dick jumping as soon as Dustin makes contact, followed quickly by his hips rising to push into Dustin’s hand, his belly going taut with the suddenness of the move, both of his thighs closing tight around Dustin’s sides. He’s covering his face with hands as he moans, and Dustin wants to give him the entire world.

Dustin touches him like that for a little while longer, pets Steve’s thigh with his other hand, marveling at how he’s shaking with the effort of staying arched into both touches. He’s quiet, whimpering low in his chest, but biting hard on his lip to keep his mouth shut, both arms draped over his face, covering his eyes. As much as Dustin appreciates the view, he’d much rather see Steve’s face, would rather have Steve talking to him again. “Steve,” he says, as gentle as he can manage, slowing the movement of his hand on Steve’s dick until he’s more holding him than anything else. “Can you look at me?”

His body goes a little looser, then, and he blows out a shaky breath. “Yeah, sorry.” He moves his arms off his face, leaving them to rest on the pillow above his head. “Sorry,” he says again. “I, uh...get shy.” He’s blushing darker than Dustin has seen yet, and it sends a little hook of agony into Dustin’s chest to realize it’s from embarrassment.

“It’s okay,” he says, as soft as can, letting go of Steve’s dick so that he can brace himself to lean forward. Steve’s breath catches when he does it, and he slides his thighs down around Dustin’s hips more snugly, moving his arms to wrap around Dustin’s neck. “You don’t need to be embarrassed. If you need to hide, that’s okay.”

Steve smiles at him and it flows over his face, slow and lovely. “Thanks, Dusty.” His hand is on the back of Dustin’s neck again, and he squeezes enough to give Dustin that pavlovian sense of comfort the gesture always brings. He uses the leverage of the touch to pull Dustin down and presses an easy, chaste kiss into his mouth. When he pulls back, it’s only enough to speak, and Dustin can feel the movement of his lips when he says, “I love you.” Another small kiss. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”

Dustin smiles back at him, his insides warming up all over again and dropping him into that state of marshmallow fluff type happiness that is rapidly becoming familiar. “I love you, too.” He's pretty sure he’s never going to fucking get tired of being allowed to admit that.

Steve kisses him again, this time a lot messier, pulling Dustin’s body into his so that he can rut up between them, his dick dragging hot and wonderful over Dustin’s, the silk between them going damp and sticky, but somehow still fucking incredible, just barely too rough in a way that has Dustin thanking his lucky stars that he’s not wearing cotton. His tongue is in Dustin’s mouth, insistent and a little desperate, and his hands are back at Dustin’s ass, encouraging him to grind down and meet Steve in a counter rhythm.

Steve, Dustin realizes, in slow, rolling waves of intensifying gratification, is  _noisy_ when he’s turned on. He starts off quiet enough, sighing into Dustin’s mouth, whimpering quietly when he first gets their hips to the right angle for satisfying contact, but, soon, there is a constant stream of broken, needy noises flowing out of him at varying pitches and volumes, and the heat is pooling in Dustin’s belly so fast, he actually starts to worry this might be over way sooner than anticipated if they keep going like this. He breaks the kiss reluctantly, letting Steve have the several chasers that he insistently goes for, and then, when he finally has enough room to speak, he says, “Can we fuck? I think we’re not gonna get to fuck if we don’t do it soon.”

Steve moans, hard and sudden, and very loud in the quiet of the room. He drops his thighs away from Dustin’s sides, and, as much as Dustin immediately regrets the loss, he stops himself from whining about it, because he knows he’ll need the room. Then Steve’s hand is gone, searching the bed until he finds the lube. He holds it up between them, and looks absolutely wrecked when he says, “Don’t take your time.”

“Jesus fuck.” Dustin kisses him, hard and fast, taking the lube from him and sitting back more than a little gracelessly. Steve has his hips canted up a little, legs splayed wide and one knee drawn up to give Dustin fair access to his hole. For a moment, Dustin feels himself getting lost in the emotional tide of  _holy shit, Steve is going to let me fuck him_  again, but at this point, he thinks they’re both so desperate that he really needs to  _get the fuck on with it._ He shakes his a head a little, trying to force himself out of his own mind, squeezes Steve’s hip hard enough that he thinks it might ache. Steve only moans and presses up into the touch. “Okay,” Dustin breathes, and  _finally_  manages to get himself to actually open the lube and get this show on the road.

He starts slow, despite Steve’s assertion to the contrary, because he knows that it’s been a long time for Steve. He knows that Steve is tense and desperate, and he’s pretty sure that if Dustin let him, he would take it rough enough to actually injure himself. Dustin’s not going to let that happen, though, because, as much as he’s here to make Steve feel good, he’s also here to take care of him, above all else. So, when he’s ready to go, he puts his clean hand back on Steve’s hip, holding him in place firmly, but letting his thumb rub gentle, soothing circles into the lovely little dip there. Then, as carefully as he ever has, he lets himself touch Steve’s hole, starts off teasing and slow, waiting for Steve to relax down into it so that when he pushes in, it won’t be painful.

It takes him a little while to get there, as anxious as he is to get going, but Dustin’s patient with him, just keeps massaging him gentle and persistent, letting loose a quiet stream of compliments and encouragement, reminding him every once in a while that he should relax, until finally, his hips settle back into the bed, muscles going loose under Dustin’s hand. Dustin smiles at him, and revels in the way Steve goes to cover his eyes, but catches himself and decides to put his arms over his head instead, looking back and smiling as best he can, vulnerable and sweet.

Dustin pushes in slowly, notices that his hand is shaking a little, but doesn't think there’s much he can do to stop it, considering that this is Steve who’s body he is currently inside of, who is bearing down against him to make the process easier. He hears himself moan, feels his dick twitch in his underwear, and wishes he could impress upon Steve exactly how monumental it is to him that they’re here doing this. Instead, he wastes no time in making sure Steve will feel good, twisting his wrist gently and angling his hand so that he can easily hit Steve’s prostate as he opens him.

Steve whines and arches up into him so hard and sudden that Dustin thinks he’d probably have hurt himself if not for the hand bracing his hip. Then he brings the leg that had been laying flat up to press into Dustin’s side, digs his knee in against Dustin’s ribs and lets his hips fall again, breathing hard. “More,” he says, right on the edge of petulance, and then adds as an obvious afterthought, “Please.”

Dustin obliges, slowly works a second finger into him along with the first, and fucks him on them just long enough for Steve to start looking impatient again before starting on the third. By the time Dustin thinks he’s loose enough, Steve has been whinily demanding that he’s ready for several minutes, and Dustin is absolutely fucking delighted to squeeze his hip, press hard against his prostate, and scold him playfully. “Be good. We’re getting there.” Steve pouts and grumbles, and the revelation that he’s a fucking brat in bed when given the right circumstances is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to Dustin. He’s fucking beaming by the time he slides his fingers out, careful and slow to avoid jarring, and reaches for the condom.

“You’re cute,” he says, conversationally as he goes to try to open the foil packet, only to realize that his fingers are too slippery with lube. He holds it out in front of himself, dangling over Steve’s chest, only a little teasing. “Can you open this for me? I have lube hands.”

Steve takes it from him, still laying back and holding it over his face to open it, which is so adorable Dustin wants to fucking scream, and then pauses before giving it back, staring at it thoughtfully. As Dustin watches, his face loosens, mouth dropping open just the slightest bit, eyes going wide and soft, and he goes even pinker than he already was, his flush spreading visibly further down his neck and onto his shoulders and chest. Then, he sits up, and asks, voice full of urgency, “Can I put it on?”

Dustin can’t help but laugh, delighted and taken off guard, the marshmallow feeling in his chest puffing up even more, sweet, and soft, and wonderful. “Yeah, of course,” he says, and if it were anyone else, he’d be embarrassed to sound that fond, but it’s Steve, so really, it just seems right.

Steve kisses him, goes in quick, but then lingers, as if he'd forgotten how much he likes doing it, licking into Dustin’s mouth and staying for a long moment before pulling back, looking disappointed but determined. He lays his fingers gently against Dustin’s erection, running them lightly over the fabric covering it as Dustin tries his best not to push into the touch. “I think you should leave these on.” He’s breathless, voice more of a sigh than anything, and Dustin doesn’t have it in him to say no.

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

Steve ducks his head, looking pleased at the endearment, and nuzzles at Dustin’s jaw before turning his focus to pushing the top of Dustin’s underwear down under his balls. Apparently, he likes the effect, because he moans, and his fingers are on Dustin’s dick then, dragging over his shaft almost light enough to be ticklish. “Dusty,” he says, reverent, and presses gently into the slit, just enough to make Dustin whimper. He puts his mouth on Dustin’s neck, then, tongue hot over Dustin’s pulse, and makes a sort of broken noise that reverberates through Dustin’s chest and makes him wish that he could just dedicate his life to giving Steve everything he could ever think to want.

He doesn’t stay there very long, though, his impatience coming back as he’s scraping his teeth over the spot where his tongue had been, and there’s a sort of fumbling urgency to his movements when he leans back and starts trying to take the condom out of the open wrapper. It takes him a couple of tries, and then a couple more to get a good hold on it, but his hands are steady when he finally goes to roll it on, and Dustin doesn’t think it’s his ego telling him that Steve is relishing the chance to have Dustin’s dick in his hand. The sounds he’s making as he does it, jerking Dustin off a few times after the condom is on, under the pretense of making sure it’s secure, seem to fall in line with the theory. Dustin is mostly just trying to remember how to breathe, and wondering how the fuck he’s going to live through actually fucking Steve, if just his hand is enough to make him this shaky.

They stay like that for a few moments longer, wrapped up close in each other, both of them shaken and overwhelmed. And then Steve kisses the underside of Dustin’s jaw, leaning back with a little scrape of teeth and a cheeky smile. He looks Dustin in the eye. “Let’s fuck, Dusty.”

Dustin smiles, feels it break over his face, sudden and wild, and can’t help but laugh as he plants his palm on the center of Steve’s chest and pushes him the rest of the way onto his back. “Can’t deny the logic in that,” he says, and does as he’s told.

He uses what is probably a little too much lube, because he also hasn’t done this in a while, and he wants to make sure Steve isn’t going to be sore later, but Steve doesn’t complain. He goes still, breathing slow and easy, fingers curled in the sheets as Dustin presses into him, as slow as he can manage. He’s tight enough that Dustin actually worries he didn’t do a good enough job with the prep, but when he falters, Steve whimpers and shifts his hips to take him a little deeper. Dustin trusts him, and pushes in the rest of the way, just as slow, until he’s pressed up flush against Steve, and wants nothing more than to lean down and kiss him, because the feeling is a little overwhelming.

“Steve,” he says, and it might as well have been the start of a prayer.

Steve reaches for him, pulls him down closer, and the shift of it makes them both moan, Steve hitching up tighter around him until Dustin thinks he might actually just die on the spot. Steve brings his arms up around Dustin’s shoulders and shifts his hips again, pressing his thighs tight against Dustin’s sides. He looks at him for what seems like a very long moment, tender in a way that makes Dustin feel utterly lost, like all he wants to do is stay here inside of Steve forever, wrapped up in him, breathing the same air, chests so close together he swears he can feel Steve’s heart beating against his own. Then Steve kisses him, pulls them even closer together with it, and Dustin feels the press of his knees and ankles encouraging him to move.

He moves. Slow at first, trying to concentrate on hitting the right angle while still keeping his tongue in Steve’s mouth, and then a little faster, once Steve goes tight around him, fingers pressing into his shoulder blades hard enough that Dustin thinks it might bruise, a jagged whine breaking out between them, harsh enough that Steve actually has to pull back from the kiss to let it out. They move together after that, Dustin setting the rhythm, and Steve rising up to meet him, not quite coordinated enough to kiss, but mouthing at Dustin’s skin where he can reach it, just as noisy as he had been earlier, only now there’s an edge to it that makes Dustin think this probably isn’t going to last very long for either of them.

He’s not actually clear on whether that assumption was correct or not, lost as he is in the feeling of Steve clinging to him, his body warm, and tight, and beautiful, his voice ragged and whiny, hands hard and desperate. It feels like he could do this for an eternity, but at the same time, when he realizes that he’s getting close, he’s almost sure it’s only been a moment since they began. Steve is there with him, though, dropping his hand to Dustin’s ribs, fingers digging in hard in a way that Dustin would hate in any other context, but now it just brings him stuttering to a halt, sure that if he doesn’t stop, he’s going to come immediately. Steve whines, but doesn’t complain beyond that, just presses his face into the juncture of Dustin’s neck and shoulder and says, “I’m close, Dusty.”

Dustin moans in response, quiet and low, and nuzzles Steve’s hair as softly as he can manage. “Me too.”

He feels Steve nod, feels him press his hips up, wanting Dustin to move again, and as he does, feels Steve’s mouth open against his skin, a moan rumbling through him, deep and hard. When Dustin goes to touch him, though, wanting to help him along, since Dustin is so close himself, Steve catches his wrist, fingers too tight again, because he seems to have trouble controlling it when he’s desperate. “Don’t,” he gasps, and pulls back so Dustin can see his face. “I don’t need it.” His eyes are dark, serious and elegant, despite his open, wanting expression.

“Fuck. Okay.” Dustin lets his hand drop to Steve’s side instead, holding on to him as gently as he can manage, unsure if he has the same problem as Steve, and not entirely bothered by the idea of both of them being covered in bruises of each other’s fingerprints tomorrow. It sends a little thrill through him to imagine it, to think about having a constant reminder of Steve’s hands on his body, even when they’re apart. “Fuck,” he says again, and his voice cracks like he’s going to cry. He wants to hold on until Steve comes, doesn’t want to leave him hanging, but honestly, he’s struggling, not sure what he can do to get Steve there, since he doesn’t want to be touched.

He compliments him, tells him all the things he’s been thinking but unable to articulate into words, because he’s so overwhelmed. He tells him he’s beautiful, and sweet, and wonderful, and makes sure he knows that Dustin wants to give him everything, that he’d be happy to stay here forever, if only he could last that long. He tells him how happy he is, even describes the stupid marshmallow fluff feeling, and rambles about how he’d just been thinking about Steve’s fingerprints as bruises on his skin. Steve whimpers, and moans, and interjects with Dustin’s name at increasingly higher pitch, until finally, he pushes up into Dustin as close as he can get, hips rolling in his own rhythm, hand tight and harsh on Dustin’s ass to hold him still, and he comes hard enough that Dustin can actually feel him twitching from the inside.

Dustin stays still and holds him through it as best he can, despite the way his own body is shaking, so close to the edge of orgasm that he genuinely wonders if he’s already coming without realizing it, until Steve goes a little loose again, still pressed up close, so the wet of his cum is smeared across both of them, turns his face into Dustin’s neck, and says all low, and harsh, and entitled, “Come on, Dusty.”

Dustin doesn’t even have to move again, feels himself topple into his orgasm as if he’s programmed to respond to Steve demanding it, and he’s so surprised by it that he yelps, high pitched and probably embarrassing, except that he’s never felt this good in his  _fucking life_. Steve moans in response, and Dustin realizes Steve’s petting him, hands running gentle and easy over his sides as he shakes, coming hard enough that he actually feels dizzy before it’s even over. It’s too much, makes him feel like the entire world is combusting inside of him, burning hot, and sudden, and explosive, until all that’s left is a single, desperate spot of coolness, and it’s Steve holding on to him, murmuring soft encouragements in his ear, touching him sweet and and easy, and coaxing him to lay down once he’s finished, because suddenly he’s wracked with tremors and unable to breathe.

He clings to Steve, who clings back, still wrapped around him as thoroughly as he can be, and realizes that Steve is talking to him, voice low and pleasant against Dustin’s suddenly jangled nerves. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, hand skating up Dustin’s spine and coming to a rest against the back of his neck. Dustin presses his face up against Steve’s neck, trying to slow his breathing to match the easy cadence of Steve’s. “You’re okay, Dusty. I’ve got you.”

It takes him a few more minutes to come down, to realize that he’s literally freaking out to the point of panic because he was surprised by how hard he came, and to laugh, quiet and watery and say, “Sorry. I got overwhelmed.”

He can hear the smile in Steve’s voice when he replies, “I figured. It’s okay.”

They lay there like that for a little while longer, until Dustin has chilled out enough that he thinks he can let go of Steve without losing his fucking mind. Steve is gentle with him. He slides the condom off of Dustin as carefully as he can, and kisses him slow and easy before he gets up to get a washcloth, telling Dustin to stay put, he’ll be right back. He wipes them both down, warm and gentle and talks to Dustin in a low, soothing voice as he does it, making sure he’s still doing okay, and comforting him when he starts to feel guilty for being such a mess.

“Dusty, it’s okay. I promise. I want to take care of you.”

“I know, but. I want to take care of you, too.”

Steve looks at him for a long moment, and it’s so tender it makes Dustin start to feel choked up again. Finally, Steve touches his face, fingers soft on his cheek, and says, “You take care of me all the time and you don’t even realize it. You don’t need to feel bad about needing a little bit in return.” Then he kisses Dustin, lazy and sweet, nipping lightly at his lips as he pulls back. “I love you, okay? So just let me fucking take care of you after you fuck my brains out.”

Dustin laughs, a little weak, but desperately pleased nevertheless. “Okay. I love you, too.”

Steve smiles. “Good. I’m glad that’s settled.”

A few minutes later, Steve has gotten rid of the dirty washcloth and taken a trip to the kitchen, returning triumphantly with cookies and some water, and Dustin’s breath catches at the sight of him, casually naked and crawling into bed to lay next to him and feed him cookies. “Am I dreaming?” he asks, and is only half joking.

Steve grins and holds another cookie out for him. “Pretty sure no. Unless group dreams are a thing. But you’re the one that would know about that.”

“We just had sex and now you’re feeding me cookies in your bed. I’m pretty sure teenage me designed this exact fantasy at some point.”

Steve laughs, and then sobers a little. “That long, huh?”

Dustin looks down at him, and can’t help but smile. “Yeah, uh, I kind of fell in love with you very fast after that time you kept me from puking on myself at the arcade.”

“Huh.” Steve looks thoughtful, and maybe a little perturbed, but Dustin just lets him work through it, waits for him to say whatever he wants to say. “Why did you date Chris, then?”

Dustin shrugs. “I thought I had no chance with you, and you told me to give him a shot. It seemed like an okay opportunity to at least  _try_  to move on.”

Steve scowls and makes another noncommittal sound. “I hate that,” he says, and pins Dustin with a very serious look. “I’m sorry.”

Dustin shrugs again and tries to sound as soft as possible when he says, “It’s okay, Steve. I was young then. It wouldn’t have been fair to expect you to want me back. I knew that.”

“Yeah, but,” Steve starts, still frowning. “I did want you then? I mean, I guess I realized I wanted you because of that.” He huffs out an annoyed sigh. “I dunno, I guess I needed a hint, but I hate that I pushed you into it because I didn’t realize.”

Dustin smiles at him, wants to rub out that crease between his eyebrows and ensure he never frowns again. “Steve, it’s okay. I don’t regret it. Especially if it means I can be with you now.”

Steve looks at him for a while longer, face slowly melting out of his scowl, and finally smiles back. “I guess,” he concedes. “You always were the smart one. I’m just glad my stupid ass got the hint eventually.”

Dustin laughs, but also shoves at Steve’s shoulder, not hard enough to actually move him, but enough to register as a friendly reproach. “You’re not stupid, Steve. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you.”

Steve leans in to kiss him, playful and quick, before flopping back into his spot and taking another bite of cookie. “You have to say that because you love me.” Somehow, it’s even cuter because he’s talking with his mouth full.

“Pretty sure I don’t _have_ to say shit,” he replies, and leans over to kiss Steve’s cheek while he chews, basking in the fact that he’s allowed to do that. “But at least I have plenty of time to convince you it’s true.”

Steve turns his face into Dustin’s, nuzzling him gently. “Pretty sure you’ll have forever,” he says, and kisses him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed. This is part of my 2018 NaNoWriMo effort. Feel free to hit me up on tumblr if you like. I'm TurtleNovas over there as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not send any of my fics to anyone related to the creation of the actual show.


End file.
